


Wishes and Words

by wearing_tearing



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Bucky Feels, Dogs, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic, Minor Angie Martinelli/Peggy Carter, POV Alternating, Past Torture, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Prince Steve Rogers, Slow Build, Stucky Big Bang 2016, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-10 14:37:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 48,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7848919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearing_tearing/pseuds/wearing_tearing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is going great until the day Bucky Barnes finds Crown Prince Steven Grant bleeding out on his lands.</p><p>Then it only gets better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bucky

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Wishes and Words (中文翻译)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7961497) by [Pearlson613](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearlson613/pseuds/Pearlson613)



> surprise! here’s my Stucky Big Bang fic, which is v v v loosely based on a scene from sam argent's _family of lies_ :D
> 
> this was a labor of love, especially after deciding to drop out from the bb in july. i couldn’t have done this without the help and support of some wonderful people who told me to keep going, even if i had to start things from scratch.
> 
> first and foremost, thanks to the mods at [the stucky library](http://thestuckylibrary.tumblr.com/) for hosting the challenge and still letting me participate when i had to change the fic i signed up with and write something entirely different.
> 
> to [rainbow_marbles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbow_marbles), thank you for listening to me complain and telling me i could do this. to engelkes and [Rena](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rena), thank you for letting me bounce ideas off of you, and for all of your thoughtful comments and encouraging messages.
> 
> to [myladyday](http://archiveofourown.org/users/myladyday), thank you for holding my hand every step of the way, cheering me on, and being the most kickass beta one could ask for.
> 
> and to [acuisle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acuisle), thank you for being the best of friends and reminding me that creating things should be fun.
> 
> and thanks forever to [acuisle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acuisle) again and to [dulcetine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dulcetine) for the MOST AMAZING ART EVER!!!
> 
> edited: aug 29 2016  
>  ****  
> [acuisle's art can be found here!!!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7888285/chapters/18018502)  
>   
> 
> **[dulcetine's art can be found here!!!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7906060) (careful of spoilers)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings** for this chapter: blood, brief descriptions of sword wounds, brief description of an injured dog, implied torture of a minor character, mentions of past torture. **details at the end!**
> 
> this makes the fic sound so dark but i promise it's like only 5% bad things.
> 
> and check out **[acuisle's art for the first chapter!!! :'D](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7888285/chapters/18018502)**

“What the fuck?”

Bucky snaps his head up, narrowing his eyes when Strider starts growling and he hears the gallop sounds of a horse approaching his lands.

Bucky doesn’t get a lot of visitors around these parts aside from a few people he does business with, and everyone else does their best to stay out of his way. He knows it’s not from dislike of him, but more because he hasn’t been living here long and people tend to distrust strangers.

He can’t really blame them. When he appeared a few years ago he made no efforts to get to know the townsfolk, at least not beyond convincing a few of them to buy his herbs and vegetables and asking them to point him to the closest bookseller.

So to hear someone approaching when no one has sent notice they would be stopping by to visit is unusual, especially when it makes Strider react this way. Unusual enough that Bucky is on his guard, hand coming to rest on the knife that he keeps strapped to his waist, muscles tight and ready to lunge into an attack if needed.

As the sounds draw near, Bucky can make out the bulky shape of a man astride the horse, his head ducked and shoulders slumped, almost as if he’s trying to shield his front or trying to put pressure on an injury. It is when that thought crosses Bucky’s mind that the man seems to lose the strength that’s been keeping him upright, making him double over and slide off the horse and to the ground.

Bucky is running before he can think twice, Strider at his side, his stomach churning when the smell of blood reaches his nose. He kneels beside the man and touches his shoulder gently, his other hand still clutching his knife in case the stranger decides to attack.

“Hey, pal,” Bucky says, squeezing the man’s shoulder. Strider is nosing at the man’s hair, snout gently nudging at his forehead. “Are you dead? Because a dead guy showing up where I live is the last thing I need.”

The man doesn’t answer, not even to groan or cough blood all over himself and Bucky’s pants.

Bucky takes a deep breath, grip loosening around his knife. Strider isn’t growling anymore, which means this man is of no threat to them. Bucky uses both of his hands to roll the man over, lips pressing into a thin line when he sees the blood seeping through the man’s shirt, covering his stomach.

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses, eyes scanning the man’s chest and arms, his throat, looking for any other signs of injury. There aren’t any, but Bucky’s eyes settle on the chain around the man’s neck, thick and golden, and to the eagle pendant that hangs from it. “Oh, _fuck_. You’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

Bucky recognizes what that eagle represents. He has seen it in banners all over the main city, has seen it in war. His eyes go wide in horror when he realizes just _who_ is bleeding out on his lands, freezing when his gaze reaches the man’s face, confirming what he already knows to be true.

Crown Prince Steven Grant doesn’t answer him, just keeps lying on the ground, covered in blood, looking like he’s seconds away from death. Bucky gulps, hands shaking as he gets a grip on the Prince’s shirts and rips them, panic rising in his throat.

He blinks when the bare skin of the Prince’s stomach shows, panic ebbing a little. The Prince is wounded, yes, but the amount of blood doesn’t match his injury. It means that whoever attacked him got the worst end of the deal, and there must be _another_ man bleeding out somewhere close to his lands. Bucky makes a mental note to check the surroundings with Strider as soon as the Prince isn’t in danger of dying right in front of him.

“This isn’t good,” Bucky says to himself, eyes flickering to the Prince’s face. “If you die on me, I’ll have to run again.” Bucky shakes his head at himself, trying to still his trembling hands. “I don’t want to run again.”

Prince Steven still doesn’t say anything, breathing shallow and face too pale. Bucky raises a hand to check for a pulse, heart loud in his ears when the one he finds is weak and slow. Now at his side, Strider licks Bucky’s cheek.

“Okay.” Bucky takes another deep breath and lets it out slowly, bracing himself. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll make you regret it.”

Bucky places his hands flat over the worst of Steve’s injuries and closes his eyes, concentrating. He hasn’t done this much, even less so to anyone besides himself. He’s not even sure it will work, but he can’t let the Crown Prince bleed out and die in front of him if he can help it.

Bucky reaches for that something inside of him, that little spark of magic he fears but knows so well. He focuses all of this thoughts on making Prince Steven better, imagining his wounds healing and closing, his skin knitting itself back together. He feels his magic flow through him, skin buzzing and leaving him warm. When he opens his eyes again it is to hear Strider barking and see no more traces of the wounds on the Prince’s body, although he is still covered in blood.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Bucky sighs, feeling drained. Using his magic always leaves him a little cold and weak, but better he feel like he needs to take a five hour nap than the Crown Prince lose his life. “Okay,” he says, taking his hands back and wiping them on his pants. “Now what?”

The Prince doesn’t offer a suggestion, although his breathing is now deep and calm. It kind of looks like he’s asleep, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, mouth slack and lips parted, chest rising and falling with each breath.

Bucky curses silently at himself. Now is _really not the time_ for those kinds of thoughts, let alone about someone who is way way _way_ out of his league. And, you know, someone he has just saved from _death_.

He looks around and spots the Prince’s horse, an idea forming in his mind. Bucky’s always been good with animals, his dog Strider being proof enough of that, talking to them in calm and soothing tones, just like his father taught him all those years ago. So it is no trouble to get the horse to come with him, leading it to where the Prince is still lying on the ground, Strider guarding his side. Getting the Prince on it is another matter entirely.

Bucky’s body shakes with the effort to gather the Prince up in his arms and settle him on the horse, sweat forming on his temples. He’s panting when he finally manages, cursing the Prince’s good physique under his breath as he ties the Prince to his own animal to keep him from sliding off of it again.

“You better appreciate this, pal, ‘cause I’m never doing it again.”

The Prince’s lids flutter, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Bucky swallows, finding his gaze once again glued to the Prince’s face, almost as if he’s trying to memorize his features.

He’s seen the Prince before, of course, but only at a distance. He’s a big man, as tall as Bucky, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. His fair hair, now damp and matted to his forehead with sweat, usually falls into his eyes. Bucky has never seen his eyes up close before, not even now, but he has heard people comparing the color to the sky on a warm summer day.

“Alright,” Bucky mutters, hands closing over the reins and giving it a light tug. Strider brushes against his side, offering silent support. “Let’s go.”

 

**

 

Bucky never thought, in all of his years of life, that he’d find himself with the Crown Prince shirtless on his bed while he painstakingly cleans him of blood.

But he also never thought he’d find himself with the magic ability to heal himself and others, so he shouldn’t really be _that_ surprised. It seems like the course of his life, now: have impossible things happen to him.

Bucky licks his lips and grabs another towel, getting it wet and bringing it to the Prince’s chest, scrubbing the blood away as gently as he can. The Prince is still not awake, although there is a little more color to his cheeks than a few minutes ago. Bucky knows that means he’s healing, recovering, and soon he _will_ awake up.

Bucky can’t have him here when he does, though.

Bucky has kept himself successfully away from trouble the past years since he carved this little place for himself here, and he is _not_ willing to disturb the peace he so well deserves. Not even for the Crown Prince.

 _Especially_ not for the Crown Prince.

No matter how many wonderful things he’s heard about the man since he moved here.

Bucky cleans the last spot of blood from Prince Steven’s collarbone, the towel he’s holding dropping the the floor and joining the others that are also stained red. Strider noses at them and whines, tongue coming out to clean his nose.

“Stupid dog,” Bucky mutters, lips curling up despite himself.

Strider huffs at him, pointedly turning his back to Bucky and jumping on the bed, curling himself at the Prince’s feet. It seems fitting, Bucky thinks as he watches them both, that the last person Bucky saved with the use of his magic being is guarded by the one who showed Bucky it was possible to heal beings and things that weren't human.

He still remembers finding Strider in the middle of a desert road lying in a pool of blood, an arrow stuck through him. The dog snarled and growled and tried to get away when Bucky got closer to him, fear and pain in his eyes, and that more than anything made Bucky want to help him. He knew what it was like to be trapped and in pain. He still does.

Now Bucky can’t help but extend a hand and scratch between Strider’s ears, reassuring himself as his heart clenches at the memories.

It was him desperately wanting to put an end to the dog’s suffering that made Bucky drop to his knees in front of him, hands raising in front of himself. He tried to remember everything his dad taught him about approaching wounded animals, and when he got close enough it was his wish to help that made him reach out to that little place inside of him filled with warmth and light and rest his hands on the dog.

To say Bucky was surprised when the wound started to heal right after he pulled the arrow out would be an understatement. His surprise was quickly overshadowed by relief when the dog sneezed and tentatively rolled over, putting weight on his front paws and then getting up like nothing had happened. Only to promptly launch himself at Bucky and start licking his face, ignoring the grime and dirt covering Bucky’s skin.

“And you’ve been dumb enough to stay by me ever since, huh?” Bucky muses out loud, petting Strider.

Strider just opens one eye and barely looks at him before closing it again, head resting on his paws. Bucky snorts. That’s Strider for you.

Bucky sighs and glances at the Prince again, somewhat at a loss. He knows he’ll need to move him soon if he doesn’t want the Prince to wake up and figure out where he is, but he needs to come up with a plan first. It will do him no good to save the Prince and then leave him somewhere he could get killed again, especially since Bucky hasn’t yet been able to check the surrounding areas for the man who made an attempt on the Prince’s life.

Bucky knows of an inn in town, _Shield_ , run by the old Captain of the Guard and her wife, Lady Carter and Lady Martinelli. Lady Carter is a nice but fierce woman who buys her spices and vegetables from Bucky sometimes. She’ll recognize Steve on sight and keep him safe until he wakes up if Bucky leaves him there. The only problem is accomplishing that without being seen.

“I’m going to have to tie you to your horse again, aren’t I?” Bucky scrubs a hand over his and, predictably, the Prince doesn’t answer. “I’m eating something first if I have to drag your dumb royal ass around, though.”

Also predictably, Strider gets up as soon as he hears Bucky rummaging through the kitchen. Bucky shares with him what he makes for himself, smiling a little whenever Strider licks at his fingers, asking for more.

Bucky changes after he’s done, trading his blood stained clothes with clean ones. He also finds a shirt big enough that seems like it’ll fit the Prince, carefully dressing him. It’s the pants that are a problem: Bucky’s hips are wider and his thighs are thicker, and whatever pair of pants he finds will be too big on the Prince. Better than blood stained clothes, he guesses, but still. Bucky has to find some rope to tie around the Prince’s waist to keep the pants from sliding down his slim hips, something Bucky will try his hardest to forget about.

Bucky ties the Prince to his horse again, sliding behind him and taking hold of the reigns. This means the Prince is cradled between his arms and thighs, his warm back pressed against Bucky’s chest. Bucky can feel the Prince’s heartbeat against his skin, the beat now strong and steady.

“You stay here,” Bucky tells Strider. “If someone we don’t know comes around, bite them. _Protect._ ” Strider barks once, sharp teeth showing. “I’ll be back soon.”

Bucky takes one of the back roads out of his land and into the town, avoiding the path by which the Prince came. He knows if there _is_ another man possibly dying, or already dead, near his lands, he won’t have strayed very far.

Bucky prays for the Prince not to wake up as they ride and finds his wish granted. Prince Steven stays asleep the entire way into the town, head resting on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky would be more annoyed with him if he wasn’t so worried. He knows what kind of trouble it’ll bring him to be connected to the attempt on the Prince’s life, and he does not want any of the attention.

Which is why Bucky stops and dismounts once they get close enough to the _Shield_ inn, making sure the ropes around the Prince are still tight enough to keep him in place. He takes one last glance to the Prince, his cheeks now pink and healthy, and then turns to the horse.

“Take him to Lady Peggy Carter,” Bucky says, petting the horse’s neck. “ _Safe_.”

Bucky only hangs around long enough to make sure they’re going in the right direction, and then turns back to the way he came from. His hand comes to rest on the knife strapped to his waist, thumb tracing the hilt.

He has an assassin to find.

 

**

 

The last few years of Bucky’s life, before settling down in this patch of the woods, are not something he wishes to remember. But it can’t be denied that most of what he has learned about tracking a man down and killing him, he did so then, when the kingdoms were at war.

Bucky walks silently through the path which the Prince used, moving through the shadows cast by the tall trees surrounding the road. His eyes scan the area in front and around him, hearing straining as he listens for the sounds of another one like him.

There is no success to Bucky’s search until about halfway down the road, when the trees are so thick it makes an easy place for an ambush. He doesn’t find who he is looking for because he is attacked, though. Bucky finds him because the man is impaled on a sword, the blade going through his stomach and stuck in the trunk of the tree behind him, keeping him upright.

“Damn,” Bucky whispers under his breath, voice so low his lips barely move. He can’t help but be impressed with the Prince for disposing of his assassin in such way, especially when it seems like the sword used is the assassin’s own. “That must hurt.”

Both physically and the man’s pride, Bucky thinks. If he was wounded by his own sword, he would lie down on the floor and let himself be killed out of shame.

Bucky carefully approaches the man, slipping his knife from its sheath and gripping it tight. The man’s been there for a few hours by now, but that doesn’t mean much around these parts. Bucky might have the power to heal, but he’s not alone in his magic. He knows of others who can do other things, and there’s no telling what this man might be capable of.

He does well being cautious when he stops short of the pool of blood soaking the ground, because as soon as he gets close enough, the man moves. Or tries to, surging forward only to groan and choke on blood when that makes him slide up on the sword even more, his hands clenching at his stomach, as if trying to hold his guts together.

It’s not the stench coming from the man or the gruesome picture in front of him that makes Bucky’s heart stop in his chest. He’s seen enough violence to last him more than a lifetime, has been responsible for causing wounds worse than this. It is the man’s face, when he lifts his head up and stares at Bucky through an eye, the other swollen shut, his face covered with shallow cuts and blood, that makes Bucky freeze in place, fear slithering cold and strong up his spine.

“Look who we have here,” the man says, teeth red and lips forming a humorless smile. “Little James Barnes. Not so dead, afterall.”

Dread fills Bucky’s stomach, but it is quickly pushed aside as Bucky stares at the face of one of the men who tormented him for so long. His fingers tighten around his knife as he takes a step forward, boots staining red. “Rumlow,” Bucky answers, voice low and rough and, surprisingly, steady behind the anger he’s feeling.

Rumlow’s eyes flicker to Bucky’s hand, smile widening and turning into something twisted, dark, _wrong_. “So you still favor knives. I thought you’d change your mind after—”

Bucky doesn’t let him finish his sentence, free hand wrapping around the sword stuck to Rumlow’s middle and pulling it back slowly, inch by inch, the blood flowing as the blade is moved.

“Is it only you?” Bucky asks, face a mask, mind far away from battlegrounds and shackles and sharp blades taken to skin.

Rumlow is panting, hands wrapped around the sword, slicing his palms open. “Is that what you’ve been doing?” he asks in between breaths, sweat gathering at his temple. “Hiding here, after all this time. Pretending you’re someone else, someone _good_?”

Bucky clenches his jaw and pushes the sword forward, a flicker of satisfaction deep in his gut when it makes Rumlow groan in pain. “Is it only you? Or are there others after him?”

Rumlow laugh, wet and weak. “Do they know you’re a killer? Do they know you’re a _traitor_ —”

Bucky doesn’t wait for him to finish before he pulls the sword back and throws it to the ground, Rumlow sliding down to his knees and doubling over, blood flowing freely from between his fingers.

Bucky reaches inside of himself for some of the magic he has left after healing the Prince, focusing his energy into keeping Rumlow from bleeding out until Bucky gets his answers. “Tell me.”

“Or what?” Rumlow taunts. “You’ll kill me?”

“You know what I am,” Bucky answers, cold and detached, finding the darkness inside of himself he wished he could leave behind. “You know what they made me into. Dying is the last thing you should be worried about.”

Rumlow swallows, a flash of unease behind his eyes. “I will anyway,” he says, looking down at his middle. “And it won’t take long. So I don’t have to tell you anything.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to smile, sharp and white and so very unlike the man he used to be before the war, before his capture, before being unmade. “I wouldn’t count on that.”

 

**

 

Bucky walks back to his cabin in silence, hollow and cold inside. He flexes his hands, skin tight with dried blood that doesn’t belong to him, his clothes and boots a mess of blood and mud and leaves.

Torture isn’t something new to him, hasn’t been for over a decade, when war first broke through the kingdoms. Either at his hands or at the hands of others, Bucky knows very well what it takes to make someone talk. It doesn’t mean he likes it. Not even when the person he cuts apart is someone who used to do those same things to him.

Bucky looks up when he hears Strider barking, his breath easing a little as his dog runs to him. “I’m okay,” Bucky tells him, kneeling down just as Strider barrels into him, sticking his cold muzzle against the side of Bucky’s neck. “ _Safe_.”

Strider whines, snuffling around Bucky’s chest and getting his fur dirty with blood. Bucky scratches behind Strider’s ears, grounding himself with each touch. It will take a while for him to feel human again, to feel like himself and not what they made him be, but having Strider around helps more than Bucky is willing to admit.

“C’mon,” Bucky says, getting up. “Let’s get cleaned up and eat something. I think there’s still some meat leftover.”

Strider barks, his side brushing against Bucky’s leg as they walk. When they get to the cabin, the four walls and the scent of _home_ are almost enough to make Bucky feel safe. And as he bathes and eats and curls himself into his bed with Strider by his side, the faint scent of soap and sweat filling his nose, Bucky almost forgets the blood in his hands and the body now buried deep in the forest.

Almost, but not quite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief descriptions of sword wounds: steve is wounded after a fight and there are very brief mentions of it when bucky checks him over; a minor character is impaled on his own sword.
brief description of an injured dog: strider, bucky's dog, has an arrow stuck through him the first time they meet.
implied torture of a minor character: it is implied bucky tortures someone off-screen to get information out of them.
mentions of past torture: brief mentions of bucky being tortured with knives in the past.



	2. Steve

Steve thinks death is rather nice.

He is warm and lying on something soft, the scents of cinnamon and smoke filling his nose. There is no pain, no hurt, no sadness. Mostly, he feels rested. At peace. Maybe a little hungry.

It is good, he thinks, to be free like this. No worries, no duties, no expectations. For these few precious moments he doesn’t hold the world on his shoulders, the implications of his future distant and far away and unimportant. The dread is gone, along with the fear, all to be replaced by steady calm and a pinch of relief.

It is exactly what he thought death would be like, when he took up arms to battle Usurper Pierce in the war around a decade ago. There is decidedly less blood and no rotting scent of flesh and piss and shit, but it is peaceful, just as he thought it would be.

“Is he waking up?”

Steve frowns. He recognizes that voice, has heard it countless times the last few years: greeting him good morning, offering him cake, telling him to get away from the muffins if he doesn’t wish to lose a finger. That voice has no place here, in the midst of dead things, so far away from life and earth.

Steve opens his eyes, taking a moment to adjust to the brightness of the room. It takes a few seconds for his sight to focus on something, for shapes to be shapes and not useless blurs of color. That is when he sees Lady Martinelli, Angie, peering down at him, her hands on her hips, tight lines around her eyes and mouth.

“Are you dead?” Steve asks, voice nothing but a rasp.

He doesn’t get an answer. Instead, Peggy fills his vision, lips red and hair curled, her gaze so dark and angry Steve thinks he would burst into flames if she was anyone else.

So, not dead then. Still here, still breathing, still Prince.

He recognizes the room now: one of Peggy and Angie’s suites at the inn. The thick velvet ruby drapes by the windows are closed, as well as the heavy dark wooden door locked. Steve is on the bed in the middle of the room, sheets pulled up to his waist.

“Are you a bloody idiot?” Peggy snaps, one of her curls coming loose, brushing her forehead.

Steve is tempted to smile, but he knows better than to show humor at a time like this. It still fills him with warmth that Peggy is comfortable enough to talk to him like this, despite who he is. There aren’t a lot of people who would, and Steve holds close to his heart the ones who do. It means so much, more than they realize, when they treat Steve as an equal. As if he’s human, flesh and bones and heart, and not a symbol or ideal to uphold.

“Probably,” Steve answers honestly, watching as Peggy visibly restrains herself from doing something that she would regret and lets out a harsh breath through her nose.

“Have I thought you nothing?” Peggy asks, sitting down on the bed beside Steve and fixing her hair. “That you would think it is perfectly alright for you to sneak out? _Again_?”

Steve clenches his jaw, hands curling into fists, feeling both ashamed at himself and angry at her for not understanding.

Steve is Crown Prince and he is privileged, but he is not unburdened. Crowns weigh heavy on people’s heads, and not everyone wears them with the grace of Steve’s own Mother. Sometimes Steve needs time, both alone and away from it all. Both to escape all the expectations attached to the Crown and the gruesome memories of the way that still plague him.

He is not without training, most of it at the hands of Peggy herself as former Captain of the Guard before she decided on a different path. He has also learned to survive during the war, after his Mother answered the call of King Fury and other neighboring royalty to fight against Pierce and help take back the kingdom they lost.

So Steve is confident he can take care of himself if he so wishes to slip past his guards and have some time with his own thoughts.

Although that might not be true anymore, seeing what happened. He can still feel the phantom pain of a sword nicking his skin, the coldness of the blade, the warmth of blood soaking his clothes and the earth beneath his feet. Blood that is nowhere in sight now, and injuries that seem to be mysteriously gone.

He glances at Peggy, words thick on his throat when they come tumbling out of his mouth, “I’m sorry.”

Peggy’s expression softens, one of her hands coming to rest over Steve’s. “I think we both know that asking you not to get into trouble is a wasted effort on my part.”

Steve feels the hot curl of shame deep in his gut, but he knows himself enough to recognize she speaks truth. “I can be more careful,” he acquiesces, catching her fingers between his own and giving them what he hopes to be a reassuring squeeze.

“Bring Samuel with you next time,” Peggy tells him. “At least he has some sense.”

Steve rolls his eyes. As much as he wants to disagree with that statement, he knows he can’t. Sam Wilson is one of Steve’s best friends and, if Steve is being honest with himself, one of the reasons why he is still here, alive and kicking and relatively unharmed.

“Are you okay, though?” Angie asks him, coming up behind Peggy and resting a hand on her shoulder, the two of them now staring at Steve, concern back on their faces.

“I’m fine,” Steve says, although he doesn’t know how. He knows what injuries he’d sustained, knows the fight was brutal, but as he shifts in bed and raised one hand to his stomach, under his shirt, all there is is smooth skin. “I am.”

The question is: _how_?

 

**

 

“Tell me what happened,” Peggy demands, after Angie takes her leave with promises of baked goods and a good mug of something hot when she returns.

Steve doesn’t know where to start, but he figures this is as good place as any. “I was stupid.”

And he was. Careless, too. Arrogant and reckless. They are not good qualities for a Prince to have, but Steve has never claimed to be good. At least not at any of this.

“Well, I’d never,” Peggy deadpans, raising an eyebrow at him.

Steve makes a face at her, but sighs when she continues to stare at him, silent and unmoving. He takes a deep breath, letting go of her hand so he can cross his arms over his chest, the hot circle of his pendant pressed against his skin, doing its best to keep him grounded.

Peggy listens as Steve tells her about feeling trapped, about his decision to sneak out, and slipping past his guards. How good it felt to be able to ride without shadows, to not be recognized, to let his mask slip and show the person underneath, even if there was no one around to see it. They both tense when Steve mentions the forest roads, having his guard down, being caught by surprise and attacked by a man who was quick to dismount him and try to disarm him. The fight is a blur, but Steve tries his best to explain what happened, from how he fought with everything that he had to the moment he grabbed the man’s sword from the ground and ran it through his stomach.

“He is dead, then,” Peggy says, a pleased glint in her eyes. “Or soon to be, anyway.”

“I think so.” Steve nods. He doubts anyone would have survived for long in that state, and even if he managed to free himself from the tree, the man would’ve bled to death soon enough.

“Someone will check,” Peggy informs him, and Steve feels a knot in his stomach loosen.

Steve keeps to himself the extent of his injuries as he talks, though. He knows he should have died, should’ve succumbed to his wounds somewhere deep in the forest, and the fact that he didn’t means something. What, he doesn’t know, but _something_.

“I got back on Samson and told him to take me somewhere safe,” Steve finishes, licking his lips. He has a good idea about the direction his horse went, but he still questions Peggy, “Who lives around those parts?”

Before Peggy can answer, the door opens. Angie walks in carrying a tray filled with baked goods and a steaming mug, placing it on the bed by Steve’s side.

“I brought your favorites,” Angie says, handing Steve the mug and a sugar cookie. “And you better appreciate the blueberry muffins, because I had to fight Mr. Jarvis for them.”

“Thank you, Angie,” Steve murmurs, taking a bite of the cookie and moaning. “‘S so good.”

“Of course it is,” Angie grins, “I made them.”

“Darling, sit down for a second.” Peggy grabs hold of one of Angie’s hands and pulls her down on her lap.

Angie huffs, her arm wrapping around Peggy’s shoulder. “Yes?”

“The old woods at the outskirts of town,” Peggy starts, barely sparing Steve a glance. “It is where James Barnes lives, is it not?”

“James?” Steve leans forward, snapping to attention.

Whoever James is, he is probably the person who lent him help. Maybe even the one who healed Steve of all his injuries. That idea doesn’t seem impossible, not with what Steve knows and what he is, not with Peggy sitting right in front of him.

“You mean Bucky?” Angie clarifies, tilting her head to the side. “I think so, yes. Old Hank didn’t care much for the land anymore and Bucky was interested. Said it was a good place, enough space for his dog to run around and for him to plant some things, nurture the land.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, testing the name on his tongue. “What more do you know about him?”

 

**

 

Angie knows a lot.

Steve is not particularly surprised. She has a way with people, a certain charm, that makes them want to open their mouths and spill what is on their minds. And as she sits on Peggy’s lap, her fingers threading through Peggy’s hair, she tells Steve what she’s learned.

“He’s grumpy.”

Steve blinks, unsure of what to say. He occupies himself by grabbing one of the muffins and taking a bite, cheeks puffing out as he chews.

“Angie,” Peggy sighs, amusement evident on the curl of her lips as she looks up at her wife.

“It’s true.” Angie shrugs. “He’s grumpy. He’s been living around here for years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile.”

Steve swallows and frowns, somewhat unsettled. “What else?”

“The tomatoes you love so much? We get them from him,” Angie tells him. “Same with the carrots, beans, lettuce, and few herbs.”

“I don’t know what he does with them, but they’re to _die_ for,” Peggy pipes up, and Steve knows that’s a high compliment from her.

“He’s quiet,” Angie adds. “Keeps to himself. He’s always polite, but doesn’t stay around for conversation.”

“That sounds lonely,” Steve comments, mostly to himself.

“A little bit,” Angie agrees, and a small smile forms on her lips. “He has his dog with him most of the time, and he pets and talks to the horses when he thinks no one’s looking.”

“Really?” Steve murmurs,  unable to keep from smiling as well.

It seems strange, this picture of a person, of this man, _Bucky_ , that he is making up in his head. He doesn’t remember anything past the moment he got on top of Samson and told the horse to take him someplace safe, and it is strange that that place would be with this man.

“He sneaks them some carrots sometimes,” Angie is outright grinning right now, eyes alight with humor, “when he also thinks we’re not looking. But the horses always perk up when they hear him coming.”

Or maybe not so strange, afterall.

“You don’t know if he was the one who helped you,” Peggy points out, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

“I don’t know,” Steve concedes, “but you can help _me_.”

 

**

 

There are things in this world that are unlike any other. Things that seem like impossible dreams, like wishes hidden deep, like stories and songs of long ago, lost and forgotten in time.

Wishes and dreams; here, they are made flesh. And stories and songs prevail and give hope.

Steve is living proof of it: the breath in his lungs, the muscles under his skin, the steady beating of his heart. But he’s not the only one who is different. Or who was made different, either by chance or choice.

Peggy considers him for a few seconds, fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of Angie’s apron. “Are you sure?” she finally asks. “Once I see things, I see them. And there is no unknowing any of it.”

Steve sets down the rest of his muffin and his near empty mug back on the tray. He takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose, losing some of the tension on his shoulders. He knows what he’s asking, the enormity of it, and the consequences of it.

“I’m sure,” Steve says, with as much certainty as he can muster.

“Give me your rope belt.”

Steve undoes the tight knot and slides the rope from around his waist, placing it on the bed next to Peggy. Angie gets up from Peggy’s lap and stands beside her, hands slipping on her apron pockets.

Peggy’s posture changes when she grabs the rope and loops one of the ends twice around her index finger. She goes still, gaze distant and focused on something others can’t see. The past is meant for Peggy’s eyes only. There are memories and feelings and histories only she can see, when she places her touch upon something and asks to be shown.

Steve exchanges a quick glance with Angie when Peggy’s breath hitches, and a second later she’s dropping the rope. Angie at her side in a flash, hands soft and sure on Peggy’s shoulders, voice low as she murmurs reassurances. Steve takes the rope and ties it around his waist again, fingers making quick work of it while Peggy grounds herself back to the present.

“Well,” Peggy says, voice wavering and cracking. She clears her throat, bringing a hand up and lightly pressing her fingers to the back of Angie’s hand. “You were right.”

“It was him.” Steve’s heart skips a beat, excitement rushing through him. “It was Bucky?”

“Yes.” Peggy gives a slow blink. “He was the one who helped you. At least out of your clothes and into new ones.”

For absolutely no reason whatsoever the thought makes Steve blush. He knows he’s caught when Angie smirks and Peggy shakes her head at him, cheeks now a brighter pink and hot.

“He sent me here,” Steve confirms. “To you.”

Peggy nods. “Tied you to your horse and told him to send you to me. He felt…,” she stops, brows furrowing in concentration before her expression turns to one of pure amusement. “He felt annoyed, but mostly worried. A little like he couldn’t believe this was happening to him, which I can understand.”

That only solidifies Steve’s decision to go look for this man. Not only because he wants to know _how_ he healed all of Steve’s injuries, but also to thank him for doing so. He knows not everyone would have bothered to help, even with Steve being the Crown Prince. Maybe _especially_ because he is the Crown Prince. And it seems this man, _Bucky_ , did so even though he didn’t wish to bring attention to himself.

“You want to go see him,” Angie says, snapping Steve out of his thoughts.

“Of course I do. He saved my life.”

“Just promise me you’ll bring your guard with you this time,” Peggy tells him.

Steve doesn’t like it, but he can recognize that is a good idea. As much as he wants to believe whoever attacked him is dead, unless they have confirmation, Steve needs to assume he’s still in danger.

“I promise,” Steve replies, and then throws the covers off of him, swinging his feet of the bed. “Can you get Samsom ready for me? If I leave now, I can get there before—,” Steve stops in his tracks. “What time is it?”

“It is, Your Highness,” Peggy slowly gets up and walks to Steve, one of her hands finding Steve’s arm and holding on, her nails digging into his skin as she smiles and says, “time for you to go back to the Palace and talk to your Mother.”

 

**

 

Sarah Grant is a good mother, but above all she is a good Queen. She is wise and just and honorable, and has been ruling a kingdom at peace for the last ten years. She is also known to be quiet and kind and to think before speaking, which is how Steve knows he’s in trouble as soon as he sets foot in her private chambers.

“What am I going to do with you?”

Steve hunches his shoulders, gaze lowering to the floor. The shame is worse now than when Peggy confronted him, because if there is one thing Steve can’t stand is to disappoint his Ma.

“Love me?” Steve tries, and presses his lips together when his mom lets out an ungraceful snort.

“Always, but must you try my patience?”

“I’m sorry, Ma,” Steve offers, because he is and it is the best he can do. Aside from promising to never do anything like that again, but they both know he would be lying.

Steve listens to his mother’s footsteps, eyes still to the floor, until he feels a featherlight touch to his chin, tilting his head up. His Ma smiles at him, tired and fond, the lines around her eyes deepening.

“You are my son,” she says, pressing a kiss to Steve’s forehead, “and my heart. I understand this is too much sometimes, our lives, what it means, what is expected of us… but I would have you find a way to deal with it that does not put you in danger.”

Steve gulps, shifting on his heels, his heart tight and stomach in knots. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

“I wish you would value your life as much as I do,” his mother tells him, palm now pressed to Steve’s heart, feeling the strong heartbeat underneath. “Above all, I wish you would value yourself.”


	3. Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings** for this chapter: referenced torture of a minor character, mentions of past torture, referenced minor character death. **details at the end!**

“Did you see where I left the gardening book?”

Bucky isn’t expecting a real answer, so he’s not bothered when Strider just continues licking his paw and doesn’t even look up. He walks around his small bedroom, eyes scanning every surface and coming up with nothing until he reaches his bed.

It would not be the first time Bucky’s lost a book between his covers. Reading is how he spends his time when he is not tending the garden or making deliveries or patrolling, distracted by words and learning as much as he can about anything that interests him. He reads for fun too, mind caught up in tales of fantastical creatures and long lost kingdoms and impossible quests.

The bed is a mess of tangled sheets and mussed pillows, which Bucky moves around until he hears a thud when something falls to the floor. He bends down and picks up the book, adding it to a pile of four others, fingers gently tracing its broken spine.

In Bucky’s opinion, books are better company than people. But he’s still grateful to the ones who offer to trade Bucky’s old copies for different books, always giving him a fresh supply of stories.

He needs them, the stories. Both to help him remember that there is some good in the world, and to help him forget. They help him stay sane, in a way, when Bucky wishes he could crawl out of his own skin and stop existing.

And Strider also helps, during the hardest of times. Which is why Bucky goes on high alert when his dog suddenly gets up, ears twitching, his attention firmly focused on Bucky’s front door.

“What is it?” Bucky asks, hand resting on the hilt of his knife.

Strider barks once, and a few seconds later Bucky can make up the sounds of horses drawing near. His body goes tense, dread curling in his stomach when he catches sight of the banners — blue with gold — from his window, turning him cold.

In his life, he has learned that being kind often comes with a price. As much as Bucky tries to convince himself, saving a Prince does not come without consequences, and it seems like it is time for him to face them. It was naive of him to hope that no one would come, that they would leave him alone.

This is what he feared. And now he has to deal with it.

So with Strider at his side, Bucky squares his shoulders, opens the door, and steps outside to greet them.

 

**

 

Bucky wishes for peace.

He doesn’t think it is a lot to ask, not after everything he has endured. After having a false King slaughter his people, conquer their kingdom, force them to fight a war of greed and ego no one wanted any part in. He wishes for a quiet life, with good food, Strider by his side, and as many books as he can gets his hands on. That’s it. That is enough.

It seems like even that small resemblance of happiness is beyond his reach. Which is fitting, after everything has done, was forced to do; for him to not have that quiet life, at least not for long. And for him to have trouble brought to his door, wrapped in blue and mounted on a horse, looking as regal as Bucky thought he would when not covered in blood.

The Prince stops a few feet away from Bucky’s house, strong thighs flexing as he gets off his horse. He looks good, healthy, not at all like Bucky has seen him before. His cheeks are flushed with life, gaze intent and curious, hair shining in the sunlight.

Bucky swallows and drops a hand to Strider’s head, fingers brushing his thick fur, and keeps his expression as blank as possible. He is good at that, pretending he is fine and not affected when all he wants to do is get away.

“Mr. Barnes?” the Prince asks, coming to stand a few shorts steps away from Bucky.

“Yes?”

Bucky doesn’t know what he is expecting. Maybe for the Prince to call his guards and have him arrested. Or maybe for him to accuse Bucky of being the one who tried to kill him. Or maybe even for him to unsheathe his sword and run it through Bucky, right then and there, without waiting for any type of explanation.

For years he has lived here, but Bucky doesn’t know much about his rulers. He knows that they are fair and popular amongst the people, knows that they value peace and trading, and knows  that they are the ones who helped Bucky’s former King defeat and kill the man who made Bucky’s life and his choices not his own. That is enough for him, most times, but now he can’t help but wish he’d learned a little more about the people ruling this kingdom.

Bucky doesn’t know what he is expecting. But it certainly isn’t for the Prince to smile and get _closer_ , his teeth white and gleaming between pink plush lips. Bucky is powerless when the Prince reaches for his hand, smooth and warm palm sliding against Bucky’s own, fingers gripping it tight.

“Thank you,” the Prince says, voice surprisingly deep and full of emotion, “for everything you did.”

The Prince’s statement feels wrong to him, undeserved. Gratitude is not something Bucky is used to anymore, at least not when it comes from doing a good deed, and to be presented with it leaves Bucky at a loss. He does not know how to react, what to say, aside from deny he’s done anything at all and hope to distance himself from the situation.

“I didn’t do anything,” Bucky tells him, voice coming out steady, his fingers twitching in the hand still grasping his own.

The Prince frowns, letting go of Bucky’s hand, and Bucky does not mourn the loss. “You did,” he says. “You saved me.”

“I didn’t.” Bucky shakes his head, hoping the Prince will believe him and leave.

“You did,” the Prince insists, his frown giving place to a scowl.

“I didn’t,” Bucky repeats, letting go of Strider and crossing his arms over his chest.

The Prince raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re lying.”

Bucky scoffs, heart hammering in his chest. “And how do you know?”

“I _know_.” The Prince narrows his eyes, and ice spreads down Bucky’s spine.

He knew this day would come, someday, again. It had happened before, when Pierce’s soldiers found and captured him. He knew someone else would come along, find out what he is capable of, and try to use what he can do for their own gain.

Bucky doesn’t want it to happen like this. He likes this town, its people, the place he has made for himself. He is tired of running, and he thought he didn’t have to anymore. He thought this place, this land, could be home.

He should be used to being wrong.

“I’m sorry,” the Prince says, surprising Bucky enough that it leaves his mind blank, no thoughts buzzing around. “I just wanted to thank you for saving my life. That’s all. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The panic ebs, little by little, as Bucky stares at the face of the man who could very well be his ruin. There is no deceit there, just genuine concern and remorse, the Prince’s brows furrowed as he waits for Bucky’s response.

Bucky finds a distant part of himself wanting to believe him. He wants there to be no secret intentions, no hidden agenda, no plot or plan that might turn around to bite him in the ass. He knows to be cautious, though.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Bucky tells him, voice low and rough.

The Prince’s eyes betray his bafflement, and he’s quick to shake his head. “I’m not here to cause you trouble.”

Bucky can’t help but snort at that, gaze going to the guards surrounding his home. “Then why the cavalry?”

The Prince flushes, shoulders dropping a little. “They kind of have to always follow me around.”

“Really?” Bucky gives him a flat look. “Then where were they when…”

“So you admit it?” the Prince grins, sudden and bright, and Bucky’s stomach does _not_ flip at the sight. “You are the one who helped me.”

Bucky exhales noisily through his nose, uncrossing his arms. “It was the right thing to do.”

And it was. Bucky has had to look the other way too many times, to ignore the chance to do right by people, to pretend he couldn’t offer assistance. But now that he is free, now that he belongs to himself again and Pierce is long dead, he will always do what he can to help.

“Not everyone would have done it,” the Prince murmurs, but still loud enough for Bucky to hear. “Thank you.”

“I wish we could forget about it.”

“I can’t!” The Prince runs one hand through his hair, messing up the strands, although they fall back into place, brushing his forehead. “If it wasn’t for you—”

“Please, don’t mention it,” Bucky says gruffly, cutting him off.

“But—,” he starts up again, gaping a little at Bucky.

Bucky interrupts him again. “Really. It’s okay.”

“Barnes—”

“Is there anything else you wanted, _Your Highness_?”

It would be amusing to watch the Prince’s growing perplexity at being interrupted so many times and then dismissed, but Bucky can’t find it in himself to find anything funny about this. He wants desperately for them all to leave, so he can go back to his house and pretend none of this ever happened.

“Well, now that you’ve mention it, yes,” the Prince snarks back, hands coming to rest on his hips.

“I see.” Bucky licks his lips, and then makes a broad gesture with his hands when the man doesn’t say anything. “And that is?”

“What did you do with the man who made an attempt on my life?”

 

**

 

Horror and fear are nothing new to Bucky.

He has lived with them for years, stared them right in the face, almost drowned in the swirl of memories they bring. Bucky still carries them with him, along with the memories of the war, knows he always will, for as long as he lives and breathes.

They are old friends, horror and fear.

Bucky is better at dealing with them now, and with the heavy weights attached to those emotions. But it doesn’t mean he stays unaffected. It does not mean, when the Prince asks his question, that Bucky does not feel them lick at his mind, cold and harsh and unforgiving.

“He’s been dispatched,” Bucky says, sounding far away even to his own ears.

It is a gentle way of saying Bucky killed him. It is a gentle way of not saying Bucky tortured him before finishing him off, healing his wounds enough so they would stop bleeding, only to inflict them again. It is what they taught him to do, after all, when Bucky was captured and made a prisoner of war. And Bucky is sure Rumlow never thought he would once be on the other side of what Bucky can do.

Information always comes with a price, in this case of both Rumlow’s life and another piece of Bucky’s soul. But now Bucky knows no one will be coming after him; now he knows that no one will be coming after the Prince. It’s a price worth paying, he thinks.

Bucky doesn’t notice he’s not present anymore until the touch of something cold to his palm brings him crashing back to reality. He is not someplace far away, somewhere made of ash and blood and death, chained against his will. He’s in front of his house, with the sun’s warmth on his skin, the Crown Prince staring at him, and Strider’s wet tongue lapping at his fingers.

Bucky looks down at Strider, lips twitching in something that is almost a smile. “Thanks,” he mumbles, scratching at Strider’s ears and thanking the world for bringing him into Bucky’s life.

Strider huffs, pressing into Bucky’s hand, his tail wagging.

“Barnes?”

Bucky glances up, having forgotten for a second the Prince was still standing there. The Prince doesn’t have his hands on his hips anymore, arms now resting loosely by his sides. Bucky can’t make out the expression on his face, but his mouth is soft and his gaze goes from Bucky to Strider and back again.

“It’s been taken care of,” Bucky answers gruffly, patting Strider’s neck when the dog presses closer to his side. “No one else will come after you.”

The Prince’s eyes fall to the dog again. It looks like he wants to say something, and Bucky tenses a little as he waits. The Prince notices, and seems to think twice before he shakes his head and changes his mind.

“I’ll have to send someone to check,” he warns Bucky. “And thank you for making sure.”

Bucky nods, and gives him the specifics of where Rumlow was buried. “It won’t be pretty.”

The Prince gives him a humorless smile, eyes hard. “It never is.”

Bucky knows. He’s seen death to last him two lifetimes, and he knows the Prince has as well.

He's heard the stories of Prince Steven in battle, how fierce and brave and deadly he can be. Fast, strong, almost otherworldly. Bucky had been long gone by the time the Prince, along with King Fury and Dame Hill, cornered Pierce in his own throne room and cut off his head, but he can still appreciate the sentiment.

He had always dreamed of doing that himself, during the years in which he was prisoner.

“I should leave,” the Prince says. “Thank you, again.”

Bucky forces himself not to grind his teeth. He doesn’t deserve anyone’s gratitude, but for his own sake, he keeps his mouth shut on the subject.

“Don’t mention it,” Bucky tells him, although he doesn’t know if the Prince will take the reminder to heart.

Especially since he wrinkles his nose and then rolls his eyes at Bucky. “Whatever.”

And maybe it’s that little reaction from him, so human and unlike anything Bucky has ever expected from someone of royal blood, that makes Bucky forget himself for a moment and say, “Just don’t do anything stupid like that ever again.”

 

**

 

Bucky knows kings.

He’s served under them, fought against them, helped bring them to their deaths. He knows kings and their egos, and he knows he’s pushing. He knows he _has_ been pushing, since the moment Crown Prince Steven stepped into his lands, interrupting him and dismissing him and generally being insubordinate. But there is a very big difference between being somewhat rude to a king, or someone who will be king, and outright telling them what to do.

And Bucky has crossed the line.

He braces himself, waiting once again to be met with the steel of a sword, with words of anger, with rough hands on his arms dragging him away. It is what he deserves. But none of that comes.

Instead, Strider is still close to his side, a line of warmth against his leg, breath hot and wet on his fingers. Bucky can hear the trees ruffle as a soft breeze blows, can smell the scent of earth and dirt and sweat all around him, and he can see not one guard leave his or her post to come bring him to his knees in front of their Prince.

There is only silence and warmth and the Prince’s gaze on his, eyes blue and bright and round, as if he cannot believe someone would dare speak to him that way. Here, Bucky dared, and he knows actions have consequences, so he waits for what is to come.

But nothing does.

At least nothing except the minute twitch of Prince Steven’s lips, and the slow way they curl upwards as they form a smile that only grows wider at each passing second. Bucky stares, struck speechless, as the Prince smiles and smiles and smiles, cheeks flushed pink and teeth showing. His eyes crinkle at the corners, the happiness in his eyes showing how young he really is.

It’s easy to ignore the way his heart skips a beat. All Bucky can do is stare at the man in front of him, feeling confused and unbalanced, not knowing what to do or how to move around this kind of situation. So Bucky does nothing, just clutches at Strider’s fur and hopes today isn’t his dying day.

Either by someone else’s sword or by standing there like an idiot for the rest of times.

“I’ll try my best not to do anything that stupid,” Prince Steven answers, grin stretching from ear to ear when he winks at Bucky, “but I make no promises.”

That wink is enough for Bucky to snap out of his stupor. He makes a little sound in the back of his throat, unbelieving and mocking all at once. “I won’t be there to save you every time,” he forces out, trying to match the Prince’s humor with his own.

When the Prince ducks his head and lets out a low laugh, Bucky knows he’s succeeded. Prince Steven glances up at him from under his lashes, laughter still lingering in the curl of his mouth and in the glint of his eyes. He takes a step back, straightening his posture, broad shoulders pushed back and chest puffed out.

Bucky’s throat goes dry, but he pretends it doesn’t.

“Thank you again, Mr. Barnes.” Prince Steven takes another step back, not looking away from Bucky’s eyes as he prepares to leave, and says, “I’ll be seeing you.”

It sounds both like a promise and a threat.

Bucky watches him leave, and hopes for the former.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> referenced torture of a minor character: bucky thinks back to torturing rumlow to get information out of him.
mentions of past torture: brief mentions of bucky being tortured with knives in the past.
referenced minor character death: bucky tells steve he 'dispatched' rumlow.



	4. Steve

“You went to see him.”

“You knew I would,” Steve tells Peggy, sounding not the least bit sorry. He ignores the flat look she gives him, instead focusing on finishing up his fried tomatoes, mouth watering at the rich taste of the food.

Steve keeps coming back to _Shield_ inn not only because Peggy and Angie are his friends, but also because the food is one of the best he’s ever eaten. The booked rooms and guests enjoying dinner are evidence of the excellent service they provide, and Steve knows he’s lucky both Ladies let him hang around when they have a full house. He is aware part of that is because of who he is, because his presence there brings them more service, but also because they both genuinely like having him around.

Right now, as he eats and drinks his fill after a grueling day of council meetings and sword training, both the tomatoes and Peggy’s statement bring an involuntary smile to his lips, mind going to the man he met three days before.

Barnes is a man unlike the one Steve was expecting. For one, he looks about Steve’s age, and not at all like the old greying man Steve thought him to be. With brown hair falling to his shoulders, grey-blue eyes that are clear and bright, a strong chin and a straight nose, paired with soft pink lips and stubble covering his jaw, he’s about one of the most attractive men Steve’s had the pleasure of meeting.

There is something else about him, though, buried underneath his grumpy and sometimes closed off expression. Something hides behind those eyes, something dark and deep and terrifying.

Steve caught a glimpse of it when asking Barnes about the man who attacked him. He noticed the way Barnes’s eyes became unfocused, his expression haunted. It was as if he was not there, but someplace far away from the edge of the forest, and it wasn’t until his dog nosed at his fingers that he came back to himself.

It is obvious there’s more to the man than meets the eye.

Angie’s words don’t match the person Steve spoke to, but that is not much of a surprise. He does admit she’s half right about him being grumpy, but that, to Steve, is more charming than anything else. He doesn’t know what it says about him, but having someone obviously annoyed at his presence and not afraid to show it is refreshing.

There aren’t many people who dare to do that. At least not to Steve’s face.

“You liked what you saw,” Peggy muses, and Steve ignores that as well.

“Your wife was wrong,” Steve says, bringing his cup to his mouth and smiling at Peggy from over the rim.

Peggy raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”

“He smiles,” Steve answers, recalling the twitch of lips on Barnes’s otherwise blank face. It was brief, so brief Steve would have missed it if he wasn’t looking, but it made him look his age. “Maybe only to his dog, but he smiles.”

Peggy nods to herself, stealing a piece of Steve’s friend tomatoes and popping it into her mouth. “You liked what you saw.”

“He’s different.”

It’s the only way Steve can describe him. Barnes is a puzzle. There is _something_ about him, something that touches Steve and leaves him wondering, and Steve wants to find out what it is. He wants to find out what kind of man is capable of killing someone, and then treat an animal with as much kindness as Barnes showed to his dog. But his instincts tell him that confronting Barnes about things is not a smart idea.

“You’re going to go back there, aren’t you?” Peggy sighs, resting her elbow on the table and dropping her chin on her hand.

“I don’t know,” Steve lies, and he knows Peggy sees right through it.

Because he wants to go back, wants to get to know the man who has saved his life. Steve owes him a debt he’ll never be able to repay, but he hopes offering some semblance of friendship is good enough.

“Of course you are,” Peggy tsks, giving him a fond smile. “You never know when to run from trouble.”

“Who says he’s trouble?”

Peggy snorts, stealing another one of Steve’s tomatoes and ignoring him when he protests. “You like him. That’s answer enough.”

“I don’t like him,” Steve grumbles, pulling his plate closer to him and away from Peggy’s quick fingers. “I don’t even know him.”

“But you want to.”

Steve looks at her, smiling a sad smile, and says, “I want a lot of things.”

 

**

 

Steve lies down on his bed, head propped against a small mountain of pillows, bare skin now cool against his crisp sheets. He feels pleasantly full, the sweet taste of Angie’s apple pie still on his tongue, and he knows if this was any other day, he would already be drifting into sleep.

As it is, Steve is wide awake, staring at the stone ceiling, fingers fiddling with the pendant around his neck. He thinks back to his conversation with Peggy, the words they’d spoken, the things they’d shared.

Peggy knows him almost better than anyone else, so her words and advice carry weight. She has been there for Steve since he was a child, through sickness and war and impossible things. They’re friends, confidents, family. Peggy sees right through his bullshit, and Steve never expects any less. So it is no wonder she figured out what he wants to do and how he feels about all of this.

Steve means what he’s said to her: he doesn’t know Barnes, but he wants to.

It is also true that he wants a lot of things he can’t have. Just because he’s Prince does not mean he’s free to do as he wishes. There are obligations and there is duty to his Queen and kingdom and people. It is half the reason Steve sneaks out like he does, so for a short period of time he can pretend all that he is is a man, not someone for people to look up to, not someone who carries this weight around on his shoulders.

This is a responsibility Steve cannot shake. This is what he was born to do and what he fought to keep, when he was nothing but a sickly little boy. A boy who, when faced with the opportunity to be reborn so he could help, jumped at the chance to do right.

Steve made his choice, and now he has to live with it.

Not that he regrets it. He will never be sorry for doing what had to be done, for putting his faith in someone who told him they could make one of his dreams come true. It made him who he is now.

He still doubts, though. Himself, his actions, the fact that he is still here, standing tall and breathing and _alive_ , heart strong and beating in his chest. But Steve is used to that, to not knowing if he really is doing the right thing. It means he does not make decisions lightly. He gives his ideas thought, runs them in his mind over and over again, tries to see them from all angles. His Ma says this is what made him so successful at war, and what will make him a great King one day, when she is no more of this world.

Steve does his best to believe her.

Right now it means he’s thinking of Barnes and how to proceed. He’s seen directed confrontation isn’t met with good results, Barnes retreating into himself, as if trying to protect himself from something. Steve doesn’t want to risk being pushed away, not more than he already has.

Steve turns to his side, punching one of his pillows. Aside from going around to Barnes’s again, Steve can’t think of what to do. Maybe his best plan is to do just that: to go visit him and thank him again for what he did, see if he needs anything, tell him Steve owes him a debt he would like to do his best to repay.

“Maybe he’ll smile again,” Steve mumbles to himself, a wish spoke out loud.

And it is with thoughts of Barnes’s eyes and the sharp bright glow of the sun that he goes to sleep.

 

**

 

“Please bring Sir Wilson with you when you go back to the forest.”

Steve freezes in place, halfway into dropping a bun into his plate. He glances up at his Ma, who doesn’t bother looking up from spreading jam over a piece of toast, fingers sure as they grip the knife. Her blonde hair is falling in ringlets over her shoulders, no crown on her head. She will leave him to get ready soon, but at the moment she is only his mother, not his Queen, as they have breakfast before their day starts.

“What?” Steve asks, voice pitched high and giving himself away.

Sarah shake her head at him, the crinkle in her eyes telling Steve she is amused by his reaction. “We both know you will.”

“You sound like Peggy.”

“Lady Carter is a smart woman,” his Ma tells him, putting her knife down. “And we’ve been talking.”

Steve sighs. “Of course you have.”

“She cares about you.”

Steve smiles a little at that, because he knows it to be true. He cares about Peggy as well, probably would have married her if they were different people who lived different lives and theirs was a different world. As is it, she is one of his best friends. Although he does have to admit he appreciates her a little less whenever she talks to his Mother.

“She could still keep some things to herself,” Steve mutters, taking a bite of his bun, cheeks puffing out.

His Ma raises an eyebrow at him, grabbing her glass of orange juice and taking a sip. “Do you know what is the best way to get to know someone, Steve?”

Steve frowns at her, mouth too full for him to answer. He knows better than to try, so he gives a little move of his head, not really a shake or a nod.

“It is to get to know them.” His Ma takes a small bite of her toast, and Steve waits in silence until she’s done. “And you get to know people by _talking_ to them.”

Steve swallows, pushing down the bun with the help of some juice. “He doesn’t seem like someone who likes to talk.”

“I’ve heard he is always polite.”

“From Peggy?” Steve raises an eyebrow.

“She does do business with him. She would know.”

Steve doesn’t mention that politeness was not exactly what he got from Barnes. “You think I should go talk to him.”

“I think you will, despite what I think,” his Ma corrects him. “Just remember that people’s secrets are theirs to keep. If this man does not want to share them with you, that is his right.”

“I know,” Steve says, because he does. He might not like it, sometimes, but he understands.

His Ma puts her toast on her plate, and then reaches out and catches Steve’s hand in her own. Her palm is cool, and Steve doesn’t stop himself from squeezing her fingers, holding on tight.

“But sometimes,” she continues, “especially when ruling a kingdom, we don’t have that luxury. I’ll put Romanova on it.”

Steve nods. Natasha Romanova works in the shadows, and if there is anyone capable of learning people’s secrets without them knowing, that person is her. She is very good at her job, and they are lucky to have her on their side. She was instrumental in bringing Pierce down, and Steve will never forget it.

“Thank you,” Steve says, bringing his Mother’s hand to his lips and kissing her knuckles.

“Don’t thank me,” she tells him. “Just remember…”

“Bring Sam.”

 

**

 

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes,” Steve answers as he and Sam ride side by side, the rest of Steve’s guard following behind him.

Steve doesn’t have to look at Sam to know his friend is staring at him. He feels the burn of Sam’s gaze on the side of his neck, choosing to keep his mouth shut until Sam’s decided to say whatever it is he has to say.

They’ve been friends for a long time. They fought together and laughed together and made bad life decisions together. Their friendship is one forged on blood and tears and love, all held together by the loyalty they have for one another.

Sam was the first person Steve went to once his Mother made the decision to align herself with King Fury and other minor kingdoms to fight against the destruction Pierce was wrecking in his greed to rule and unify all the people under his thumb. Just because the war wouldn't be fought in their lands didn't mean they _wouldn't_ have to fight, and the thought of it back then both exhilarated and scared Steve in equal measure.

Sam shared his fears, and together they gave their best to the cause. Steve is both flattered and disgusted by the stories people tell of them in the field: of how unstoppable they are once fighting side by side, how ruthless, how _good_.

Still, they've been made brothers both by choice and by fighting side by side, and Steve wouldn't have it any other way.

“Permission to speak freely?” Sam asks.

Steve turns his head and makes a face at Sam, both because of what he just asked and also because Steve knows he’s about to be called on his shit. “You’ve seen me covered in my own vomit, Sam. You can say whatever the hell you want.”

Sam shrugs. “It’s good to have my bases covered.”

“By all means, please do say whatever you want to say, now and forever.”

“Good,” Sam says without batting an eye, and then adds, “Because this is fucking stupid. We don’t know anything about this guy.”

“He saved my life,” Steve reminds him. “And he made sure the man who attacked me wouldn’t come back to try and finish the job.”

“Congratulations on that, by the way,” Sam says, reaching a hand out and punching Steve lightly on the shoulder. “Impaling a man with his own sword? I see Peggy’s training wasn’t for nothing.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, a little proud of himself.

“Still,” Sam keeps going, “Romanova still hasn’t come back with word on this guy. All we know is that he’s quiet and capable of getting rid of a man with no trouble. A simple gardener shouldn’t be able to do that.”

“War makes killers out of us all, Sam,” Steve says, tone dark and cold. “Many people who shouldn’t know what it is like to take a man’s life had to learn.”

Sam’s expression grows somber. It has been years since they last battled, but those memories are hard to forget. “You’re right,” Sam concedes. “I just want you to be careful.”

Steve softens a little at that. “I have you on my left,” he says. “I trust us to keep each other from dying.”

Sam lets out a short laugh and shakes his head. “Some things never change, I guess.”

“I hope this doesn’t,” Steve admits. “Now shh, we’re almost there.”

 

**

 

Steve isn’t prepared for what he finds once he gets to Barnes’s house.

Mostly because what he _is_ prepared for is more of Barnes’s grumpiness and icy glares. And that is not what he gets, oh no. What awaits him once road transforms into the little rundown path to Barnes’s house is something entirely different. And Steve thanks his quick reflexes for not falling off his horse as soon as he catches sight of Barnes.

The man is kneeling down on the ground by the side of his house, tending to what appears to be a small garden, a few old and rusted tools close to his knee. His dog is lying by his side, head resting on his paws, watching as Barnes digs his fingers into the soil. It is not the mundane task that baffles Steve, though.

Barnes is sweating, his white shirt stuck to his back and shoulders, showcasing just how strong he really is. Steve’s mouth goes dry as he watches the play of muscle whenever Barnes moves, transfixed by it. It doesn’t help that Barnes has his hair tied at the back of his neck, a few strands falling loose from the ponytail and sticking to his face.

A small sound escapes from Steve’s mouth as he stares, dazzled.

It is loud enough that the dog lifts his head up, snapping his gaze to Steve and his party. The movement makes Barnes look up from what he’s doing, his relaxed expression turning to one of annoyance when he sees who is there.

Steve feels a stab of guilt at that. He had no intentions of disturbing the man’s peace, not really. But now that he’s here, he squares his shoulders and tries to find a little bit of composure again. He signals to his guard to stay in their posts, and then turns to Sam.

“I’ll be right back.”

Sam considers him for a few seconds, then glances quickly to Barnes before turning to Steve back again. “Take your time,” he says, with an infuriating curl of his lips, almost if he’s trying not to smile.

Steve flushes and gives him a sharp nod. He gets off his horse and walks to where Barnes now stands, willing his heart to calm down. He can tell by the tight press of Barnes’s mouth that he is not happy to see him.

“Are you serious?” is what Barnes asks as soon as Steve is within earshot, confirming Steve’s thoughts.

Steve is glad for his plan at the moment, because it means he doesn’t fumble through an answer as he says, “I owe you a debt. I thought I’d come see if there is anything you need.”

Barnes’s reply is quick and harsh, “There isn’t.”

Steve blinks. “You must need _something_.”

Barnes’s expressions twists, and when he laughs it is ugly and wrong. “For you to go away maybe,” he says under his breath, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“But—,” Steve stutters.

“ _Your Highness_ ,” Barnes says, in that tone of his that means he’s not saying that out of respect for Steve’s title. Steve isn’t expecting the soft, “Please,” that follows, which is the reason why he snaps his mouth shut and nods.

“I’ll…,” Steve tries, somewhat at a loss for words. It doesn’t help that Barnes’s dog is now standing, hackles raised and teeth bared. “I’m sorry,” is all he can come up with, although he knows how empty apologies can sound.

For a split second, it shatters through whatever emotion Barnes is feeling, turning it into surprise, his eyes widening and lips parting. It is gone before Steve can say anything, buried under a mask, deep beneath the ice of Bucky’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, heart tight. “I’ll go.”

Barnes watches as he makes his way back to his horse. Steve looks back at him once more before he leaves, the tense line of Bucky’s shoulders and his blank expression scorched into his head.

Sam and his guards follow in silence, just the sounds of the forest and their horses hooves hitting the ground disturbing the peace around them. At least until Steve feels Sam come closer, sees him from the corner of his eye.

“So,” Sam starts, casual-like.

Steve isn’t fooled. “Yes?”

“Were you this terrible the first time around?”

Steve doesn’t answer, but he sighs and looks skyward, asking for strength.


	5. Bucky

“This is exactly why we keep to ourselves,” Bucky tells Strider as he goes back to tending his garden, body still tense and mind reeling from the Prince’s visit. “Talking to people only brings trouble.”

Strider huffs, blinking lazily at Bucky as he relaxes under the sun. Bucky wishes he could find calm within himself quite as easy as Strider seems to, but is resigned to spend the rest of the day with tight muscles and worry turning his stomach into knots.

He does not think Prince Steven will be coming by again, but he thought that the first time around. He had hoped, as foolish as a child, that the Prince would not remember him nor the direction in which he was going when he was attacked. He should have known better, so as not to be so affected when he showed up.

At least things are not as bad as they could be. It seems the Prince remembers only his attack in the forest and being saved by Bucky, but not the manner in which the latter happened. It’s a relief that Bucky doesn’t need to worry about any form of confrontation about what he can do, nor  about how he was able to easily dispatch Rumlow.

Bucky doesn’t worry much about that one, if he’s being honest. War is still fresh in people’s mind, despite the last ten years of peace.

A lot of men alive today were made killers, and they still carry those scars and skills with them, even though this kingdom wasn't one devastated by war. People fought and died, yes, and people suffered, but here no houses were burned, no commerce was trashed, no places were left in ruins, not like in the kingdom Bucky used to call home before this one. The memories are still there, in the haunted look in people's eyes, but the surface was left unscathed. Bucky isn’t any different, although some of his scars are more prominent than others.

“At least he doesn’t remember,” Bucky mumbles to himself, and saying the words out loud does a little to help with the tense line of his shoulders. “Wouldn’t want people to know our secret, huh?”

Strider gets up and goes to him, sticking his tongue out and licking a stripe over the side of Bucky’s face. Bucky wrinkles his nose and pushes him away, laughter bubbling in his throat. Strider barks, nipping at Bucky’s fingers and trying to warm his way under Bucky’s side.

“Alright, alright,” Bucky says, smiling a little. He throws an arm around Strider, his other hand coming up to scratch the dog under his chin. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

Strider looks up at him, doggy breath hitting Bucky’s face. He doesn’t say anything, unfortunately, seeing as dogs aren’t capable of speech. But Bucky can swear the glint in his eyes is knowing, and the smile he’s sporting is amused.

“I think maybe I’m spending too much time with you, pal,” Bucky comments, shaking his head at himself.

Strider barks, which Bucky takes as a denial. He knows there’s no such thing as spending too much time with his dog, and that Strider is better company than a lot of people in this kingdom. The Crown Prince included.

“I hope he doesn’t come back,” Bucky says, and then yelps when Strider slips away from under his arms and jumps straight into the carrot garden.

 

**

 

A week goes by without any more unexpected visits, and Bucky lets himself relax into his routine again.

There is something calming about knowing what to expect of his day: waking up before dawn, going into town, making deliveries early in the mornings for fresh produce. He stops at Stark’s place to trade his books, losing a few minutes, as always, when the man gets excited about something he read in one of his alchemy books and can’t stop talking. Not that Bucky minds, since it’s kind of soothing to be part of a conversation in which he is not expected to talk much.

Bucky stops at _Shield_ for both his weekly delivery and to eat some breakfast, sneaking a few carrots he keeps in his pockets to the horses out front, quietly wishing them a good morning. Lady Martinelli is waiting for him out back, giving him a sweet and kind smile as soon as Bucky comes close.

“Looking good this morning, Mr. Barnes,” she says, opening the door to the kitchen and letting Bucky inside.

He nods at her and unloads the food in silence, listening as she starts telling him about the going-ons of the inn. As much as Bucky keeps to himself and doesn’t interact with people outside of his business, he is very well informed in all of the kingdom gossip, courtesy of Lady Martinelli.

He tells himself this is also a good way to cover his own hide, since whenever someone new appears around this parts, Lady Martinelli is most likely to hear about it and tell him. In truth, it’s more entertaining than he wishes to admit, hearing about all of the scandals and happenings of the people in town.

“Here,” Lady Martinelli says after he’s done unloading everything, pushing him down on one of the wooden chairs by the table and setting a plate and a steaming mug in front of him. “It’s a new recipe. I haven’t had the time to get Peggy to taste it yet, so I need you to tell me if it’s good.”

Bucky glances up at her before tentatively picking up one of the small bread slices in front of him. He brings it to his mouth and takes a bite, eyes widening when the flavors burst on his tongue, sweet and a little bitter all at once.

“So?” Lady Martinelli looks at him expectantly. “Does it pass muster?”

“Lemon and blueberry?” Bucky asks, licking his lips and chasing more of the taste.

“Yes. Thought I could mix things up a little.”

“It’s good,” Bucky tells her, taking another bite of bread. “Very good.”

“Thank you. You can finish those up, and I’ll wrap the rest so you can take it home with you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I insist,” Lady Martinelli interrupts him. “It’s the least I can do.”

Bucky blinks, both touched that she would do something like that and also a little confused. “Thank you,” he replies, feeling inadequate.

“It’s nothing,” she says, going on about wrapping the rest of the loaf. “So, did anything exciting happen this week?”

Bucky frowns at her. “No.”

“Nothing at all?” She glances over her shoulder at him, lips tilted up in a smirk. “Not even a little thing?”

Bucky shakes his head, eating some more of the bread so that he doesn’t have to say anything.

“I see,” Lady Martinelli says. “So no one came to visit you? No one tall and strong and blond? Someone who looks mighty like Prince Steven?”

Bucky stops chewing, looking up at her and raising an eyebrow.

Lady Martinelli stares at him for two beats and then sighs, setting the loaf on the table and then sitting down. “You’re no fun,” she says. “Steve won’t tell us anything, and here I was hoping I’d get more words out of you about it.”

Bucky is glad he’s eating, because it gives him time to break that statement down.

He shouldn’t be surprised at the familiarity with which Lady Martinelli talks about the Prince.  It makes sense, considering who she is married to, but Bucky never thought that familiarity would extend to her calling him by his given name. It says something about both the Prince and who Lady Martinelli is to him, that such breaks in protocol are allowed. Bucky processes that new bit of information about the Prince, using it to complete the somewhat vague picture he has of the man in his head.

The second thing that catches his attention is the fact that Lady Martinelli obviously _knows_ the Prince came to visit him. That means Prince Steven has spoken to them about his intentions of doing so, but it seems he did not elaborate on the matter. Bucky is glad the Prince kept the specifics to himself, especially considering how things came about. Bucky knows he wasn’t at his best, knows he was not as polite and respectful as he could be, and he wouldn’t want the way he acted that day to color Lady Martinelli’s impression of him.

The final part that catches his attention is that Lady Martinelli thought she could talk to him about this. This seems odd to him, for reasons Bucky can’t quite put into words. It also fills him with this strange warmth, that Lady Martinelli would feel comfortable with and would _want_ to hear him talk and tell her stories. He’s used to talking to people only as far as it takes him to make business arrangements, so the prospect of just telling someone about his life sounds very strange.

As least it does so now. The time in which Bucky was always eager to tell people about his day and the new things he’d discovered is long past, just a bittersweet memory, like all the others he has of before the war.

“You’re really not going to tell me anything?”

Bucky lets himself smile, just a minute twitch of his lips, and then goes for another piece of bread, stuffing it in his mouth. His soul feels light when that makes Lady Martinelli laugh, the sounds of her laughter echoing through the stone walls of the empty kitchen.

“You’re both as stubborn as each other, when you want to be,” she muses, and at Bucky’s confused expression she adds, “You and Prince Steven.”

Bucky scowls. “We’re nothing alike.”

Lady Martinelli actually snorts, still smiling. “Of course not.”

Bucky finishes eating his bread, mostly so he doesn’t have to engage in this line of conversation anymore. Lady Martinelli lets him, although she keeps smiling the entire time, even as she moves on to tell him about the latest fight between Mr. Summers and Mr. Howlett and the furniture that suffered as casualties of it.

Bucky stays and listens to her talk until the kitchen staff starts coming around, already puttering around and making arrangements for breakfast. He takes his leave soon after, the lemon-blueberry loaf Lady Martinelli wrapped for him secure in his hands, and thanks her for the food and drink.

“It was my pleasure,” she says, and surprises Bucky when she leans in and kisses his cheek. “Until next time.”

Bucky stares at her for a few seconds, shocked, but then gathers himself enough so he can reply, “Yes, my lady.”

He turns, heading for his cart, but still close enough that he hears her loud and clear when she says, “And say hi to Prince Steven for me when you see him!”

 

**

 

Lady Martinelli’s words hang over Bucky’s head like a dark cloud for the next two days.

He’d convinced himself he was free of this, had a week of peace to get used to the idea that he wouldn’t have to deal with Prince Steven anymore. But now those words haunt him, taunt him, leave him irritable and a little scared. Strider notices, keeping close to Bucky as often as he can, licking his fingers as a reminder that they’re both here and things will be okay again.

“You have more hope than I do,” Bucky sighs, hugging Strider close when he tucks his cold nose against Bucky’s throat and climbs into his lap.

But it is not until the third day after his conversation with Lady Martinelli that the Prince shows up.

Bucky is almost done hanging his wet clothes to dry when he hears the telltale sounds of horses riding near. He looks down at Strider and makes a face at him, annoyance already making itself known as he walks around and back to the front of his house.

Just as Bucky thought, Prince Steve makes his way down the rundown path that leads to Bucky’s place, dressed impeccably in the royal colors, blond hair almost white when the sunlight touches it. His guard is with him, as Bucky suspects they always have to be, but along follows someone with a wheeled cart filled with something Bucky can’t quite distinguish.

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, trying his best to glare and not look as if he has no idea what is going on. He partly succeeds, but when Steve dismounts his horse and comes near and gestures for the short bearded man with the cart to follow along, he cracks.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky asks, ignoring the way the man’s eyes widen behind the Prince, shock evident in his features.

Prince Steven raises an eyebrow at him, shoulders straight and chin up, and that is soon followed by a small smile. Bucky ignores the way his stomach flips at that, digging his nails into his palm as he waits for an answer.

“I noticed your tools were old and rusted.” He pointedly glances at the gardening tools resting against the walls of Bucky’s house, near the garden. “I thought I’d bring you new ones.”

The Prince looks over his shoulder at the cart, Bucky following his gaze. Now he can see the shiny new gardening tools inside of it, gleaming under the afternoon sun.

Bucky is floored, arms now hanging limp at his sides and mouth agape as he stares at the tools, mind blank. He doesn’t know long long he stands there, struck by disbelief he can’t bring himself to string coherent thoughts together. It is long enough that Prince Steven starts shifting on his heels, though.

“Mr. Barnes?” he asks, sounding not as sure as he did when he first opened his mouth.

Bucky opens and closes his mouth a few times, and it takes Strider whining and nudging his hand for him to be able to speak clearly. Still, all that he manages is a weak, “What?”

He watches in wonder as Prince Steven shrugs and brings one hand up to scratch at the back of his neck. The expression on his face is one of embarrassment, the smile he tries to give Bucky sheepish.

“Working with rusted tools is dangerous,” the Prince says, shrugging. “Sometimes they don’t work properly. You could get seriously hurt.”

“Dangerous,” Bucky repeats, astonished.

Bucky forces himself not to laugh at the irony of it all. Here stands his Crown Prince, worried about hurts Bucky might cause to himself. Little does he know any and all hurts heal, as long as Bucky wishes them to and focuses his magic on the task. He does not say that to the Prince, of course.

A slight movement to the left catches Bucky’s attention. As Prince Steven stands in front of Bucky, the tips of his ears turning bright red the longer Bucky goes without saying anything, one of his guards ducks her head. Bucky watches as she presses her lips into a tight line, her eyes crinkling at the corners, as if she’s doing her best not to laugh.

That, more than anything, strikes Bucky with certain clarity.

Crown Prince Steven Grant is kind of a dumbass.

He turns back to Prince Steven, wondering at the mountain of a man across from him. He has no idea how to deal with this, how to get the Prince to go away, seen as it seems like he’ll just keep coming back. Or he will until he gets some kind of response out of Bucky and feels as if whatever debts he owes are payed.

It looks like the easier way to deal with this is just to accept whatever he’s brought with him. Bucky could use new tools, that he knows, and the prospect of having the Prince leave him alone after he accepts them is just an added incentive. He can thank the man for this small kindness, and then never see him again.

_Finally_.

Bucky regards the Prince for a few more seconds, just for the pleasure of watching him squirm. Then, in his best dignified voice, the one learned when the King ruling him was nothing more than a tyrant and a murderer, he speaks.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, and then adds, with every ounce of respect he can muster, “Your Highness.”

It is worth it, although Bucky does his best to ignore it, for the grin that takes over Prince Steven’s face. It is bright and bold and happy, and a little bit blinding under the light of the sun.

“You don’t have to thank me, Mr. Barnes,” the Prince says, wide grin in place. “Not at all.”

Bucky tilts his chin in acknowledgment, and then focuses on the exchange of his old gardening tools for new ones. All the while thinking this is the last time he will see Prince Steven. _Finally_.

But what he does not know is that their story is just beginning.


	6. Steve

Steve does not mean to go back to Barnes’s place. Or that is what he tells himself in the coming weeks. He does his best to forget the man, throwing himself into any and all tasks he has at his disposal and meeting all obligations he has pending as the Crown Prince. He goes to council meetings, trains with his Knights, sits in on audiences, helps his Queen with trading deals. He busied himself from early morning to late at night, all efforts to make him stop thinking about Barnes.

Not that it works, in the end, as his mind keeps going back to the man, again and again and again.

What bothers Steve most is that Barnes seems lonely, living so far out of town, having only his dog for company. He knows some people prefer solitude, have a better time when not surrounded by others, but that does not seem to be Barnes’s case. Not from what Angie tells him, at least, and Steve choses to believe her for now.

Steve also does not want to go through life without having any contact at all with the man who saved him. He has already lost one person whom he owed his very own life to, and he doesn’t want that to happen again.

He does need to consider Barnes’s boundaries, though. It does appear the man isn’t very fond of having Steve around, and Steve does not want to push. Not much. He figures if he does go back, it will be just to see how Barnes is doing, and then he can take his leave. He knows Angie would keep him updated on Barnes’s well-being if he asked, but he does not want to break the trust they have with each other by asking her to spy on someone. It wouldn’t be fair on either of them, and most of all on Barnes.

Things only get worse when Romanova comes back from her mission.

Steve is at the library, spending the one free hour he has of the day before he goes back to meetings curled up by the window under a small patch of sunlight, a book in his lap. He’s so absorbed with the story he doesn’t notice Natasha when she plops down on a chair a few feet away from him, silent and deadly as she always is. It takes her clearing her throat for Steve to look up, which he does, startled, accidentally dropping his book on the floor.

“Graceful,” Natasha says without inflection, eyes trained on him.

Steve picks up his book, ignoring her comment. This is not the first time Natasha has caught him off guard, and it certainly won’t be the last.

She is different, in the way Steve and Peggy are. Only she isn’t a dream made flesh or capable of seeing stories when she touches something. Her gift is one of shadows, making herself unknown and unseen, capable of wearing as many different faces as she needs to blend in. That was how she deceived Pierce and made it so King Fury had the opportunity to kill him.

“You have news.”

Natasha tilts her head in acknowledgement. “Not much, but some. Would you like to hear them?”

Steve knows he perks up like a puppy at that, he doesn’t need Natasha’s small smug smile to tell him. “Have you spoken to my Mother?”

“She knows everything there is to tell.”

“I’d like to hear it, then.”

Natasha crosses her legs under herself, body almost swallowed up by the cushioned wing chair she sits on. The sunlight doesn’t quite reach her, but Steve can still make out the red of her hair and the brightness of her gaze when she starts telling him what he desperately wants to know.

“He settled here around five years ago,” she starts. “Bought the acres of land around the outskirts of town from Old Hank, who says he doesn’t know Barnes, but he seems like a good kid. Quiet, honest, someone who just looked like he wanted a place to settle down.”

Steve has to agree with the old man. That’s also the impression he gets from Barnes: someone who is tired and wants to just live his life without too many complications.

“He sold part of his first harvest to Hank as well, once he started planting. As a way of saying thank you, apparently,” Natasha informs him, and Steve could swear she sounds amused. “Hank says after having the first taste of the kid’s tomatoes, he couldn’t keep quiet. Word spread around town, which was how Barnes started supplying some of the people around here with food, Ladies Carter and Martinelli included.”

Steve nods at that. He knows Peggy and Angie only deal with the best, so it’s no surprise to him that Barnes’s food is well known for its quality. It leaves Steve feeling proud, in a strange way, knowing people appreciate Barnes’s work so much.

“From that, everyone has all the same things to say about him: he’s quiet and honest and always polite,” Natasha continues, and then adds, letting a little bit of humor bleed into her tone, “And it appears he likes to pet the animals and talk to them when he thinks no one is paying attention.”

Steve matches Natasha’s humor with a smile of his own. It seems Barnes’s love for animals proceeds him.

“Very little is known about his past,” Natasha tells him. “Before coming here, he spent a couple of years wandering our neighborhood kingdoms, but I couldn’t find anyone who knew enough about him to tell me why. In fact,” she leans forward, elbows on her knees, “it seems like all people know of him is the little they gather after speaking a few words to him at a time. But no one could tell me where he came from or what made him leave there or why he isolates himself to the edge of the forest.”

Steve considers that. He’s a little disappointed at how little information was discovered, but at the same time that only makes him even more curious.

“I could go talk to him myself, if you’d like,” Natasha suggests, no doubt reading Steve’s curiosity on his face. “I’m sure I could get him to speak to me.”

“No,” Steve is quick to reply. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

It still holds true that Steve wants to get to know Barnes, learn more about him, but as it is, whatever else he learns about the man, he wants to find out for himself. It already feels like an invasion of privacy the little Steve _does_ know, because it came from someone else, not right out of Barnes’s own mouth.

“You like him,” Natasha says, and it makes Steve sigh.

He is getting tired of hearing that, even though it is not exactly untrue.

Steve does like Barnes, or at least he likes the little Barnes has shown of himself. He has to admit there is something incredibly relieving about the way Barnes doesn’t seem to be impressed by him at all, with his glares and sharp answers and total disregard for Steve’s title.

“Thank you for your services, Romanova,” Steve says, oddly formal. “They are appreciated.”

Natasha gets up, feet soundlessly hitting the floor. “You’re welcome, Your Highness,” she answers, and, before disappearing into the shadows of the library, adds, “He likes books, by the way. Especially ones about dragons and other things of myth.”

 

**

 

As everyone knew Steve would, he makes his way to Barnes’s house after spending the morning running drills with his Knights, a small square bundle tied to his horse. Sam isn’t with him this time, busy with his own commitments, but Steve can feel his smugness from a distance. It doesn’t help that he caught one of his Knights trying to smother a laugh when he told them their destination, before he was silenced by Dame Chavez with a sharp elbow to the side. Steve would reprimand him if America didn’t have him well in hand and if Steve wasn’t laughing a little on the inside as well.

Barnes is nowhere in sight once Steve gets there, but his dog is lying down on the ground by the front door. He starts barking as soon as Steve dismounts his horse and carefully unties the bundle tied to his saddle. All the noise brings Barnes out of his home, front door opening with a bang, successfully making his dog go silent.

The knife on Barnes’s hand makes Steve go tense, but he should have expected it. With as much noise as his dog was making, no doubt did Barnes think something was not right. But as soon as he catches sight of Steve and the banners emblazoned with an eagle, he puts away his knife and assumes a position Steve is finding himself familiar with: arms crossed over his chest, mouth tight, and leveling Steve with a glare that would send lesser men running.

But Steve hasn’t been known to run from a thing in his life, so he walks up to Barnes, the small selection of books held tight in one hand.

“Hello,” Steve says once he draws near. “I brought you some books.”

Bucky glances down at Steve’s hand and blinks once. Then he straightens up, uncrosses his arms, says, “No,” and goes back inside his house, dog following behind him, door closing on Steve’s face.

“Well,” Steve says to himself, at a loss.

He leaves the books by the door, and then gets back on his horse. He prides himself on not looking back over his shoulders to see if Barnes picked up the bundle. Small victories.

It doesn’t really get better from there.

 

**

 

The next time, Steve brings with him a fist-sized leather ball. Sam is the one who gives it to him after training one day, both of them sweating and aching and with bruises already forming on their legs and arms.

“Here.” Sam throws the ball to him, and only Steve’s quick reflexes save him from being hit square in the forehead.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for the dog,” Sam tells him, and laughs when Steve gives him a confused look. “Barnes’s dog. Figure if you get him to like you, Barnes won’t be far behind.”

Steve stares down at the ball in his hand. “How do you know I’m going back?”

Sam snorts. “I _know_ you,” he says, and then smirks. “And I heard Dame Bishop and Sir Bradley talking about your last failed attempt at getting the man to like you.”

Steve’s blood rushes to his cheeks. “I see my own guard has betrayed me.”

“They care about you,” Sam says, clapping him on the shoulder. “The ball was actually Bishop’s idea.”

And it is not that good of an idea, Steve soon finds out, when he once again rides down the now familiar forest road to Barnes’s lands about ten days after the book incident.

“I brought your dog something,” Steve tells Barnes, who is once again standing by his front door, arms crossed over his chest, staring at Steve like he doesn’t quite know what to do with him.

“You brought Strider something,” Barnes deadpans.

Steve makes note of the name, eyes going to the animal in question. The dog is sitting by Barnes’s side, eyes trained on Steve’s hand.

“Here,” Steve says, dropping the ball on the floor, letting it roll close to the dog.

Strider stares at him for a few seconds, and leans in close to give it a sniff. Steve’s heart is beating rapidly, hope blooming in his chest. Maybe Bishop and Sam are right. Maybe Strider will like the gift, and soon Barnes will see Steve is not that bad of a person after all.

Steve should know better, though. Luck hasn’t been on his side in this matters, and it is no different now.

It all comes crashing down when Strider pulls back, gets up, barks once at Steve, and then goes back inside the house. It is so much like Barnes’s previous reaction that all Steve can do is gape. He is so baffled by it he almost misses the proud look in Barnes’s eyes, only catching a mere glimpse of it as the man turns around and follows his dog back inside, never once uttering a word.

 

**

 

The third time, a month after this all started, Steve is armed with a basket of baked goods, courtesy of Angie.

“They’re his favorites,” Angie tells him, all smiles and quick winks as she ushers Steve out. “Now go get your boy.”

Steve wrinkles his nose at that, but he knows better than to argue with Angie when she has her sights set on something. As it is, this time around he does get a different reaction from Barnes, although Steve knows without a doubt it is because what he brings is delicious food.

“Are those cinnamon buns?” Barnes asks, eyeing the basket with something akin to hunger in his eyes.

“I think so,” Steve says, proud when he doesn’t stutter, shocked at actually hearing something aside from _go away_ and _leave_ and _no_ leave Barnes’s lips.

“Thank Lady Martinelli for me,” Barnes tells him, grabbing the basket from Steve’s arms. He doesn’t turn around right away and goes back inside, not like the other times. Instead, he takes one of the lemon cakes from the basket and hands it to Steve.

“Thank you,” Steve replies as he takes the cake, more out of surprise than anything.

Bucky nods at him satisfied, and then goes back inside, leaving Steve standing there, both confusion and hope swirling in his mind.

 

**

 

Steve stays away for another two weeks, through no fault of his own. His Queen still wishes for him to get more involved in their kingdom’s dealings, as to prepare himself for when he has to rule, so Steve once again finds himself with his days full. Meetings upon meetings upon meetings, with training sessions in between, and audiences with anyone who wishes to be heard during the weekends.

It is tiring, so when Steve finally gets some time free of obligations, he mobilizes his guard and gets Samson, riding to Barnes’s place. This time he brings with him another book, one he found buried under old scrolls in the royal library, about rare herbs and spices.

Steve offers it to Barnes once he gets there, both of them standing by the garden, the fresh scent of damp soil filling Steve’s nose. He tries to fight a smile at the glint of interest he sees in Barnes’s eyes when he catches sight of the title, and thinks he mostly succeeds.

“This is…,” Barnes starts, voice rough with disuse. He can’t seem to find the words he wants, though Steve understands what he is trying to say anyway.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Steve tells him, already taking a step back. “Until next time.”

Steve doesn’t look back, but he can feel the weight of Bucky’s gaze on the back of his neck the entire time.

 

**

 

It is not until the two month mark hits, around the fifth time Steve shows up unannounced at Barnes’s place, that he actually gets more than a few words from the man.

The gift Steve has with him this time is but a mere drawing, done by his own hand, of Barnes and Strider sitting by the vegetable garden. Strider has his nose pressed against Barnes’s face, tongue sticking out as if to lick him, while Barnes has an arm thrown over the dog’s back, keeping him close.

Steve is not prepared for the look of absolute loss on Barnes’s face when he gently picks up the drawing and stares it. A blank look or a small smile? Sure. But not this. Never this. And it only gets worse when Barnes glances up at him.

“Why do you keep showing up?” he asks, voice nothing but a whisper, Strider whining at his side. Barnes touching him once, between his ears, as if to offer himself some sort of comfort.

Steve gulps, stomach in knots. He doesn’t tell the whole truth when he says, “I like coming here. And it feels right to try to thank you for what you did for me, for saving my life.”

Because Steve also wants to know _how_ Barnes managed to do that. How the wounds he sustained were no more, gone without leaving a trace, as if they were never inflicted in the first place.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Barnes answers, the oh-so-familiar hint of annoyance in his tone.

“I want to.” Steve raises an eyebrow at him, stubborn. “And you can’t stop me.”

Barnes rolls his eyes, which in turn makes Steve smile a little. It means he’s slowly coming back to himself.

“What I mean is,” Barnes starts, and then sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, “you don’t have to thank me for that. Not only because it _was_ the right thing to do, but also after I’ve been so rude to you.”

In that moment, Steve almost laughs. Both giddy from having Barnes actually _speak_ to him, but also because he kind of _likes_ Barnes being rude to him. Steve can count on one hand the number of people who let themselves see past the crown he wears to treat him as the asshole he regularly is.

“It’s ok—,” he tries to say, but is interrupted.

“It’s not.” Barnes pinches the bridge of his nose, deflating a little. “It’s never okay for someone to be rude to you when you’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

Steve’s heart twists at that. He shrugs one shoulder, suddenly unsure of himself. “Well,” he says, and clears his throat once, “I have been showing up unannounced for two months, so some rudeness is okay.”

Barnes snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Barnes goes back to staring at the drawing, index finger lightly tracing the lines. Now Steve is the one who stands there, not knowing what to do. Experience tells him Barnes will either tell him to leave or will go back inside his house, so he waits.

But that does not happen.

Instead, and flipping Steve’s world on its axis, Barnes gazes up at him, grey-blue eyes considering. He worries at his bottom lip, making it plump and red and shiny, although Steve does his best not to focus on it.

“C’mon,” Barnes says, straightening his shoulders, eyes never leaving Steve’s. “If you’re going to hang around, you might as well be useful.”

For the first time, when Barnes turns on his heels and walks inside his house, Steve follows.


	7. Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no warnings for this chapter! but i will give virtual hugs to everyone who spots the v obvious asoiaf references :D

Bucky takes great pleasure in watching Prince Steven struggle as he learns the basics about gardening. It is odd at first, to have the Crown Prince on his knees next to him, the sun on his back, his white pants getting stained with dirt.

“I have more of them,” is all the Prince says when Bucky comments on it.

“You don’t wash your own clothes, do you?” Bucky raises an eyebrow at him, pressing his lips together when the Prince flushes and shakes his head. “Wear something old, next time.”

And Prince Steven does, whenever he shows up at Bucky’s from that day forward, always bright early in the morning, never more than two times a week. He never stays over more than a couple of hours at a time either, although he does seem to want to stay.

“I have things to attend to,” Prince Steven says, lips curling down.

Bucky always lets him go with only a nod before turning back to his work. He knows that by ‘things’ the Prince means ruling a kingdom, and Bucky will not stop him from doing what he needs to do. He benefits from good rulers, after all.

It takes the Prince a few visits before he ends up being less of a hindrance and of some help. At first he’s clumsy in his attempts to learn what needs to be done, almost as if he’s not used to how big his hands are, as if he doesn’t know how to do delicate work with his large palms and thick fingers.

Bucky second guesses his decision to make use of Prince Steven all the while, wondering what he was thinking when he thought it’d be a good idea to put the man to work.

When Bucky is being honest with himself, which is not often, he knows he did it because he was curious. Curious about a man who doesn’t seem to give up, who is stubborn but still so kind, who kept coming back week after week after week, but always leaving when Bucky asked him to go.

Okay, maybe Bucky was also a little bit lonely, and the thought of having Prince Steven around for more than a few minutes at once didn’t sound too horrible. He is still not so sure it isn’t, but as the days pass he believes he is right.

A small part of him also did this as a way to protect himself. He’s learned the advantages of keeping his enemies close, and while he does not think the Prince wishes him any harm, it is always good to be prepared.

So Bucky does not send him away whenever he stops by, always followed by his guard, week after week after week. Bucky does not really understand why he keeps coming around, when he sure has a plenitude of things to occupy his time. But still, Bucky lets the Prince stay, lets him help, and wonders if he’s made the right decision or if all of this will soon come crashing down around him.

 

**

 

“I need you to help me keep Strider away from the carrots.”

The Prince looks at Bucky, something close to panic on his face. “I need to what?”

“Distract Strider,” Bucky explains, brushing a few sweaty strands away from his face. “He loves carrots too much.”

Strider barks at that, as if agreeing. Bucky can usually keep him away whenever he’s doing this alone, but that involves locking Strider inside the house, something Bucky does not enjoy doing. With Prince Steven around, Bucky can leave Strider free, as long as he is effectively distracted while Bucky does what he needs to do.

“Uh, how do I do that?”

“You’ve played with dogs before, right?”

“I have, yes.”

“Then you’re good.”

There are a few seconds of silence before the Prince blurts out, “Your dog doesn’t like me.”

Bucky bites down on his bottom lip, trying not to laugh. There is something about having the Crown Prince afraid of his dog that makes Bucky want to giggle, but he refrains.

“Did he ever bite you?” Bucky asks, knowing very well the answer to that.

Strider doesn’t attack unless Bucky explicitly tells him to, or whenever danger is clear. As much as the Prince annoys Bucky sometimes, it is no cause for that. The Crown Prince might be a threat, and a very dangerous and serious one, under certain circumstances, but this is not one of them.

“Well, no,” Prince Steven says slowly, chancing a glance at Strider who sits on the ground, tongue sticking out and tail wagging.

“Then you’re good,” Bucky repeats, and then adds, because he is not heartless, “He likes belly rubs.”

Prince Steven seems unconvinced, but he stills crouches down in front of Strider, half blocking his view of the garden. Bucky watches from the corner of his eye as the Prince extends a hand for Strider to sniff, and the little smile that forms on his face when Strider laps at his fingers.

Bucky focuses on his work, every once in a while glancing at the two of them. The Prince now sits on the ground, unconcerned about his clothes, with Strider stretched out in front of him, panting happily as Prince Steven gives him as many belly rubs as he wants.

All in all, it is a very efficient day at work.

 

**

 

They don’t start actually talking to each other until the Crown Prince’s fifth visit. When it happens, it is tentative, but still more substantial than the instructions Bucky gives him while they’re working. Bucky is just getting used to being around someone for a long period of time, and conversation doesn’t come easy to him. So unsurprisingly, it is the Prince who speaks up first.

“Did you keep the books?”

Bucky doesn’t need to ask what books he means. The collection of old folktales, the small book of poems, the dragon stories, and the leatherbound book of rare spices and herbs are all kept safe in the chest by Bucky’s bed, locked far away from Strider’s teeth.

“I did,” Bucky admits, something warm coiling in his stomach.

He kept them because he loved them, not that he tells the Prince that. The selection Prince Steven gifted him with is fascinating in its diversity, and it has brought Bucky endless hours of entertainment. Some he has read twice already, at first because he couldn’t contain his excitement, and the second time because he wanted to savor the words.

“Did you like them?” Prince Steven asks, gaze focused on the tomatoes he’s picking.

Like them is an understatement, although Bucky also keeps that to himself.

“I did,” is what Bucky says instead. He notices the way the Prince’s shoulders drop, almost as if he was bracing himself for a negative response. Bucky feels a pinch of guilt at that, so he clears his throat and adds, “The dance of the dragons one was my favorite.”

The Prince turns to him so fast Bucky thinks he hears something crack. But any worry he might have about Prince Steven’s well-being gets overshadowed by the gleeful smile that takes over his face, excitement in every line of his expression. Bucky would think it makes him look beautiful, if he was anyone else.

“Really? Mine too!” Prince Steven turns to him, tomatoes forgotten. “What was your favorite part about it?”

Bucky licks his lips, a little distracted by the Prince’s happiness. He also takes note of the fact that Prince Steven only shared with him books read and enjoyed by himself before. It adds a personal touch to the gift, and in a way makes it more meaningful, much like the drawing created by the Prince’s own hand.

It also makes the little spark of warmth on Bucky’s stomach spread through his body, leaving him flushed.

He shakes his head at himself and pushes down on those feelings, digging his dirty fingers into the grass under his knees. Prince Steven is still looking at him, expectant but patient.

“My favorite part?” Bucky muses out loud. “What do you think?”

That only makes Prince Steven’s smile widen, and Bucky is helpless but to match with a small one of his own. Especially when both of them lean a bit forward, eyes sparkling when they say, “The dance!”

Work takes second place as Bucky finds himself in a deep discussion about the book. Him and the Prince seem to have similar tastes when it comes to stories, appreciating adventures and fantastical creatures.

It is strange to talk so much to someone when Bucky hasn’t had to use his words in such a long time. But he doesn’t find himself struggling to get his thoughts across, at least not when it comes to this.

There isn’t much danger in recalling his favorite passages and characters, or to discuss the progress of the plot. It is something outside of himself that he can talk about freely, without the shadow of fear that colors most of everything else. And Prince Steven listens, sharing thoughts and opinions of his own when he thinks he has something to add to the discussion.

Soon enough their conversation moves down different paths, to different stories, to book recommendations of their own. Bucky finds himself enjoying this tremendously, a giddiness he hasn’t experience in years overtaking him.

Which is why he feels like he has been hit by a bucket of icy water when one of the Prince’s guards walk up to them, steps unsure.

“Your Highness.”

Prince Steven cuts off mid-sentence, staring up in surprise, as if he’s forgotten where he is. Bucky feels much the same way, being so caught up in their discussion he’d not only forgotten himself, but he’d forgotten who he was talking _to_.

“Yes, Sir Altman?”

“It is almost mid-morning, Your Highness,” Altman says, cheeks pink.

Prince Steven stares at him for a second before he startles. “Oh, right. Thank you for the reminder.”

“You have to leave,” Bucky comments, excitement dying.

“I do,” Prince Steven agrees, lips curling down as they always do. “I _must_.”

“Then go,” Bucky tells him, feeling oddly cold and empty as he utters the words.

Prince Steven swallows and nods, but before he moves to get up he moves closer. When he speaks, his voice is nothing but a whisper, only meant for Bucky’s ears. “I had fun today,” he says, and Bucky could swear he sounds surprised. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me.”

Bucky can’t bring himself to speak, struck speechless by those eight little words. The last time someone gave value to anything he had said — at least that it was not related to his work — was a lifetime ago, when Bucky himself was an entire different person. So he can only bring himself to lower his head in acknowledgement, both so he doesn’t have to speak and so the Prince won’t see how affected he is by what was said.

“Okay,” the Prince breathes out, and Bucky watches him from the corner of his eye as the man gets up, dusting off his clothes. He stops again before following his guard back to his horse. “Until next time.”

Bucky tries to convince himself he’s not sad to see Prince Steven go.

 

**

 

Their shared interests don’t fall only in the realm of books, which Bucky finds out as the month passes. They also both love anything and everything Lady Martinelli cooks and bakes, much like anyone who has ever tasted her food.

Prince Steven comes back, and brings both books and baked goods with him, a huge smile on his face. Bucky tries not to look too eager when he catches a whiff of the sweet cakes, but if judging by the smug expression on the Prince’s face, he fails. Not that he minds. This just means he has an excuse to take the basket from the Prince’s hands.

“Eager, are you?” the Prince laughs, eyes crinkling in the corners.

Bucky rolls his eyes, gesturing for the Prince to follow him into the house.

This is only the second time Prince Steven has been inside, so Bucky still has a moment of disconnect when he sees the Crown Prince in the middle of what can be called his living room. He does not care about how small and worn down his home appears to be, but the contrast of the Prince’s rich clothes and the modesty of the place is still striking.

“You would be as well, for Lady Martinelli’s goods,” Bucky answers, placing the basket on the small wooden table he has in the makeshift kitchen area, books by its side.

“Oh, I am,” Prince Steven says, coming up to Bucky’s side, but careful to leave some distance between them. “The blueberry muffins are for me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t see any blueberry muffins,” Bucky says, just as he picks up a blueberry muffin and sticks it into his mouth.

It is totally worth it for the outraged look on Prince Steven’s face. At least until he clenches his jaw and swipes one of Bucky’s preferred sugar cookies and stuffs it in his mouth, his cheeks full, crumbs falling on his shirt.

They stand there at an impasse, chewing and glaring at each other. It’s the most fun Bucky’s had in a really long time.

“Want to eat those outside?” Bucky asks, offering a compromise.

Prince Steven narrows his eyes. “Are you going to steal my muffins again?”

“No,” Bucky promises. “But you have to keep away from my cookies.”

“I think I can control myself.”

They finish most of the basket between them, ignoring Strider’s pleading looks and whines. Or they do until Bucky caves, going inside and coming back with a carrot, throwing it to Strider, who catches it and happily starts munching on it.

“I like it here,” Prince Steven says after silence falls between them, the morning sun shining brightly all around them.

Bucky’s stomach flips, and he forces himself to say, “Yeah?”

“Yes.” The Prince nods, gaze taking in his surroundings, a wistful smile on his lips. “It’s peaceful, quiet. Must be nice.”

“It is.”

Bucky wonders what life is like for the Crown Prince that make peace and quiet so attractive to him. Maybe it is why he likes spending so much time with Bucky, so he can get away from the busy life of the Palace and everything that comes with being royalty.

He doesn’t ask, though. Not today.

Instead, he offers the Prince the last sugar cookie. “So, have you read anything good lately?”

 

**

 

When Bucky first invited Prince Steven into his life, common ground was the last thing he expected to find between them. But after a month of their comings and goings, their conversations, their time spent together, that is exactly what happens.

As they get to know each other, without Bucky realizing, they build a tentative friendship between them. One based on their shared love of books, food, and the forest.

It isn’t until Bucky finds himself in front of his house, waiting for Prince Steven to arrive, holding one of Stark’s books in his hand, that he admits he doesn’t mind having the Prince around. In fact, he _likes_ it, enjoys his company even, looks forward to their shared conversations.

Strider also comes around to the Prince, jumping on his legs and licking his face and demanding belly rubs whenever he’s around. Bucky would be jealous if it didn’t make him want to smile, to see his Highness reduced to a mess of dog spit and fur whenever he comes by Bucky’s house.

“Is that for me?” the Prince asks, eyes falling to Bucky’s hand.

“To borrow only,” Bucky tells him, handing him the book. “I want to know your thoughts.”

“I’ll read it as fast as I can,” Prince Steven promises, handing the book to one of his guards for safekeeping.

Bucky likes having the Prince around, most of the time. The reasons why he was so hesitant to allow this are still valid, though. He has a big secret to keep, one that might cost him his life. But as he comes to see Prince Steven as a friend and not an inconvenience, he tries to convince himself that it is alright for him to be around the Prince like this: in a controlled place where he knows he is safe.

These moments have become precious to him, as ill as he is to admit. Part of him does not understand why Prince Steven would see them as such, not when he is who he is. Bucky holds on to that question, visit after visit after visit, until one day he decides to be brave and ask for an answer.

“Why do you keep coming here?”

They’re inside the house, windows open and curtains rustling with the wind, after a long morning at work. Bucky is washing the dirt and grime from his hands, fingernails black and dirty, while the Prince sits on a chair, a cool glass of water on his hand.

“What do you mean?”

Bucky turns to him, drying his hands with a piece of cloth. “I mean what I asked.”

Prince Steven makes a face at him, and Bucky knows he’s stalling when he takes a sip of water before saying, “I owe you my life.”

“That’s an excuse,” Bucky says, and throws the cloth at the Prince’s face. The Prince bats it away, leveling Bucky with a glare.

“It’s the truth,” Prince Steven argues.

“Maybe it was, in the beginning,” Bucky concedes. “But now it’s nothing more than horseshit.”

Prince Steven goes quiet in a way Bucky has rarely seen, withdrawn and distant. Bucky almost regrets questioning him, but he really does wish to know the answer, if only to ease his own fears and insecurities.

“It’s freeing,” Prince Steven says after a few passing seconds, “to be here, around someone who doesn’t treat me like I’m... _other_.”

Bucky stares at him, taking in Prince Steven’s blue eyes and the downward curl of his lips. It seems they have more in common than they’ve ever expected to. This time, that is not a good thing.

“Yeah, pal,” Bucky says, tired. “I get it.”

And when they smile at each other, it is both understanding and so very sad.


	8. Bucky

“What’s going on?”

Bucky raises his head to the sound of Prince Steven’s voice, but does not stop loading lettuce into his cart. “Deliveries I gotta make,” he says, sweat already forming at his brow.

“But we never…,” Prince Steven trails off, alarmed.

“I know.”

Bucky purposefully arranged so the Prince wouldn’t stop by during the days he needs to go to the city. He knows how much attention having Prince Steven tag along will bring to himself, and that was something he’d hoped to avoid.

Now he doesn’t really have a choice.

Well, he could send the Prince away, he supposes. It’s been months since Bucky last asked him to leave, but he’s done it before. He could very well do it again. But a little part of him doesn’t want to. He wants to keep Prince Steven close, at least for the few hours during the week in which he can.

“Then why…?” Prince Steven asks, once again not completing his sentence, eyes glued to Bucky’s form as he keeps working.

“It’ll be eleven years in two weeks, Your Highness,” Bucky starts, voice rough with the effort to say those words out loud, “that you’ve helped King Fury reclaim his throne and put an end to the war.”

Eleven years since Bucky lost his family, his home, and himself.

Bucky still remembers, crystal clear, the day Pierce’s armies invaded his home. He remembers the fire and screams and deaths, the blood, the slaughter, the absolute devastation. All because one man thought he should be the one with the crown, with that much power on his hands, just because he had the forces to go ahead and take it.

The terrifying despair of it all clings to Bucky to this day. He can track the end of the life as he knew it to the day Pierce stuck a knife in King Fury’s back and sat himself on the throne. It wasn’t long after that that Bucky was made prisoner, made to fight for a false King, and was unmade himself.

“Oh, yes,” the Prince says, quiet and stiff. “I forgot about the celebration.”

Bucky snorts. “How can you, when you and Your Majesty helped us get to this point?”

 

**

 

Everyone knows of the story, Bucky included, even though he only comes to learn of it a couple of years after the war is over.

Pierce’s reign is not a long one, but the damage he caused still shows its face years after his death. It will take a long time for the kingdoms invaded by his forces to recover, as well as for those who sent men to help fight against his rule to heal from the wounds inflicted, the lives lost.

While Pierce thinks he’s succeeded at killing King Fury and busies himself invading other minor kingdoms, King Fury and one of his kingsguard, Dame Hill, flee to seek protection under Queen Sarah and ask for her help restoring the crown to its rightful heir. Queen Sarah and Crown Prince Steven, knowing what is at stake, oblige.

Bucky doesn’t know the specifics, doesn’t wish to learn them at all, seeing as he’d manage to run away from under Pierce’s claws at that point. But he knows they were successful in their mission, something he will always be grateful for.

With Prince Steven leading the battle, King Fury and Dame Hill get to the palace, and pin Pierce right where they want him. Pierce’s death is quick at King Fury’s sword, much to Bucky’s disappointment, but the fact that it happens at all will never stop filling him with relief.

The man who so destroyed him is dead, and Bucky smiles whenever he remembers it.

 

**

 

“I can help you,” Prince Steven says, ignoring Bucky’s statement.

Bucky understands. He is not the only one who wishes to forget all about the war, and a big party throughout the kingdoms isn’t the best way to help with that.

“You want to help me with deliveries?” Bucky raises an eyebrow at him, wiping the sweat off his face with the back of his hand.

He knows this is a terrible idea, but at the moment having to do all of this work by himself sounds worse. He’ll need help if he intends to get all the deliveries done today, something he needs to do if he wishes to keep himself in the good graces of the people around town. He needs the business to keep himself going, living this quiet life he likes so much, petting his dog and tending to his garden and pretending he doesn’t have a spark of magic inside of him.

“It’ll go faster, if it’s the two of us,” Prince Steven points out. “Even more so if my knights help.”

Bucky glances at the guard, biting down on his bottom lip not to laugh when he notices the disbelieving looks on their faces. “I think they have a more important job,” he says, tilting his head when Dame Chavez snaps her focus to him. “They do have to protect you, after all.”

Prince Steven makes a face, but seems to know better than to argue. “Just us, then.”

Bucky sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Okay, but you have to do everything as I say.”

“Okay,” Prince Steven promptly agrees, grinning.

Bucky is already regretting everything about this.

 

**

 

The astonished looks and curious whispers start as soon as they set foot into town.

Bucky swallows past the lump in his throat, making sure Strider is by his side, both for protection and because it brings him comfort. Prince Steven also holds himself tense, something Bucky didn’t think possible. Surely he’s used to this kind of attention, being the Crown Prince and all.

“Are you ready for this?” Bucky asks him under his breath, looking up at the Prince.

“Are you?” Prince Steven retorts, making Bucky huff.

“We’re both not ready, then.” Bucky takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Let’s go.”

Most of the deliveries go on as usual, albeit with people being considerably nicer to Bucky when he is a few minutes late. That is undoubtedly because of Prince Steven’s company, not that Bucky is going to complain.

The extra attention might suck, but at least not having to deal with angry people is better. And again, Bucky does need help, and the Prince proves efficient when he follows Bucky’s instructions to the letter, not wasting time with complaints.

It’s especially nice to have Prince Steven around when they get to _Shield_ , Lady Martinelli waiting for them out the back, a huge smile on her lips.

“If it isn’t my favorite person!” she says, a twinkle in her eye. “And Steve.”

Prince Steven rolls his eyes, and Bucky has to try his best not to laugh.

“I see how it is,” Prince Steven sniffs, pretending to pout.

Bucky has to look away for a second, focusing on Lady Martinelli’s order.

“I’m sure I’d like you more, if you hadn’t disappeared on us.”

Bucky chances a glance up, interested. Prince Steven ducks his head and avoids Lady Martinelli’s gaze, the back of his neck and tips of his ears turning bright pink. It’s fascinating to watch as the blush spreads through his cheeks and runs down his chest, covered by the white shirt he’s wearing.

“I’ve been busy,” the Prince offers, clearing his throat.

“I’m sure.” Lady Martinelli looks at Bucky and, out of all things, _winks_ at him.

Bucky startles and looks away, finding Strider and petting him a little, only so he can avoid whatever it is Lady Martinelli thinks she’s doing.

“Darling, do you— Oh.”

Bucky straightens up when Lady Carter walks into the kitchen area. She looks from him to Prince Steven to her wife and back again, her lips curling up at the corners.

“Hey, Pegs,” Prince Steven says, raising a hand up in a small wave.

“Steve.” Lady Carter arches an eyebrow, leveling with a pointed look. “I see you’ve decided to grace us with your presence.”

“He’s helping Mr. Barnes with his deliveries,” Lady Martinelli pipes up, now grinning.

“I see,” is all Lady Carter says, but those two words are heavy with meaning.

Bucky stands there, a little afraid. Somehow, having the attention of two people who are very close to the Prince seems worse than all of the curious eyes of strangers. It might be because they know him better than anyone, so whatever conclusions or ideas they might take from this carry more weight.

“And we should get on with it,” Prince Steven says, cheeks red. “We have a lot of work to do this morning.”

The three of them turn to stare at Bucky, who gulps, hand finding Strider and catching on his fur. “Yes,” Bucky says, voice cracking a little. “Your Highness is right.”

Bucky doesn’t miss the way Prince Steven wrinkles his nose at the use of his title. It seems like neither do Lady Carter and Lady Martinelli, who, for some reason, take to smiling at both of them, wide and bright.

“I’m sure you both have time to breakfast with us,” Lady Carter tells them. “Please, sit.”

“We shouldn’t—,” Bucky tries to say.

“You don’t need to—,” Prince Steven also pipes up.

Both of them shut up real quickly when Lady Carter claps her hands together, the sound echoing through the kitchen and then gestures for the big wooden table near one of the stone walls. “Sit, both of you.”

Bucky does, making sure to press his lips together in a thin line and make it clear he’s doing so under protest. Prince Steven seems resigned, his shoulders slumped as he takes his seat, a slight flush still on his cheeks.

“Is Steve giving you any trouble?” Lady Martinelli asks as she starts placing all kinds of goods on the table. “Because you can always tell him to leave you alone.”

“He knows,” Prince Steven mutters, all kinds of unhappy.

“He’s fine,” Bucky replies, and then immediately steals one of the cinnamon buns and stuffs it in his mouth, per usual when he does not wish to have long conversations.

“See?” Prince Steven smiles, obviously proud of himself. “I’m fine.”

Lady Martinelli laughs, patting the Prince lightly on the back of his hand. “More so than we can imagine, I’m thinking.”

For some reason that makes Prince Steven blush again. Despite himself, Bucky follows, feeling the heat rush up to his cheeks. He lowers his eyes to the table, wishing he could get up and leave without causing offense.

“Leave them be, love,” Lady Carter says, hugging her wife from behind and pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. “How about we just enjoy breakfast for once?”

“That’s what I’m trying to do!” Lady Martinelli protests, but when they all sit down to eat, conversation is light and doesn’t touch upon the work Prince Steven and Bucky do together.

Bucky finds that he likes it, being around them. He still does not talk much, deciding to keep his words to himself unless he finds that he can’t. Lady Carter doesn’t seem to mind his silence, and he knows Prince Steven and Lady Martinelli are already used to it.

All in all, it is a very pleasant break in his morning, although it does put him a little behind schedule. It means they have to rush with goodbyes, but Lady Carter and Lady Martinelli are understanding.

“I’ll see you soon,” Lady Martinelli tells him, kissing him on the cheek once before bending down and kissing Strider, right between his eyes.

Prince Steven and Lady Carter are still inside, their hushed voices barely audible as they talk. It doesn’t take long before they’re both out, Prince Steven looking like he’s sucked on a lemon, while Lady Carter smiles, amusement written all over her face.

Bucky tilts his head to the side in silent question, eyebrows raising when Prince Steven just mumbles something under his breath and walks past him. Bucky frowns, but before he can actually open his mouth and ask, Lady Carter walks up to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” she says, placing her hands on his shoulders and kissing his cheek. Bucky stands stock still, feeling her breath on his neck when she adds, “Both for your services and for what you’re doing with Steve.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Bucky manages to get out, eyes wide.

Lady Carter pulls back, nails digging into a little into the meat of his shoulders. “Then keep doing nothing, for he is the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”

She lets go of him, leaving Bucky standing there, mouth agape. It isn’t until Strider barks and Prince Steven calls his name that he moves, a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“What did she say to you?” Prince Steven asks once they resume their work, brows furrowed.

“What did she say to _you_?”

Prince Steven blinks at him, mouth open and closing a few times before he says, “Nothing. She said nothing important.”

Bucky nods.

They both know they’re lying.

 

**

 

It isn’t until one of the last deliveries for that morning that it happens.

Things are going so well, and despite the added bit of attention he is getting, it is still something manageable. That is, until Prince Steven starts _talking_ when someone is brave enough to ask him why he is accompanying Bucky for the day.

“I owe him a debt,” Prince Steven says, chin high, the words of a honorable man.

Words that make something tighten in Bucky, make his fingers grow cold and numb. They are words that make him wish to grab one of the carrots he saves for the horses and _throttle Prince Steven with it_.

“A debt, you say?” Mr. Lang asks, interested, his eyes moving from Prince Steven to Bucky and back again.

Bucky knows that whatever is said to Scott Lang will soon echo across the kingdom, seeing as he is a bigger gossip than even Lady Martinelli. Which is why Bucky tries to catch the Prince’s eyes to firmly convey his opinion on this matter being aired. As it is, Prince Steven is staring ahead, the picture of pride.

“Mr. Barnes saved my life,” Prince Steven says, and Bucky has to keep himself from jumping the distance between them and strangling the Prince with his bare, “when someone wished to take it. And he kept me safe while I was hurt and vulnerable to other attempts on my life.”

Mr. Lang’s eyes are as wide as the moon. “Sounds like a hero,” he comments, looking at Bucky with appreciation.

Prince Steven only makes it worse when he agrees. “He is a hero.”

That is when Bucky knows he is doomed, and there is no chance for him to live as he once did. Because while people can probably forget the unassuming man who sells them food when he’s seen with the Crown Prince _one time_ , they certainly won’t forget the Crown Prince calling said man a _hero._

It is not until they say goodbye to Mr. Lang that Bucky shows his displeasure, though. And he does so by grabbing Prince Steven by the arm, ignoring the way the action makes the guard tense, their hands going to their swords. Instead, Bucky drags the Prince back to his cart and pushes him into it, barely paying attention to Prince Steven’s look of surprise at being handled in such way.

“What do you think you’re _doing_?” Bucky snaps, body coiled tight. He digs his nails into his palms not to reach out, grab the Prince’s shoulders, and shake him.

Strider barks at his side, sitting between Bucky and the Prince, watching them.

“What do you mean?” Prince Steven looks up at him, baffled.

“Why would you say all of that?”

_And make people think I’m a good person_ , Bucky doesn’t add, but it is what he’s thinking.

Prince Steven frowns, hands curling into fists at his sides. “It is the truth. People should know what you did. It was noble and brave, and you deserve the recognition.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, because to him those words sound untrue. He does not want recognition, never has. With it comes attention, prestige, _remembering_. And Bucky wants none of that. He’d rather be a ghost story, a forgotten memory, lost in the mists of time.

If people take Prince Steven’s words to heart, then it means they will pay more than just a passing attention to him. It means people will _remember him_ , and he can’t afford to have anyone recognize him or find out what he’s capable of.

Bucky does not tell Prince Steven any of that, of course.

“I don’t want more recognition than I already have, thank you,” is what he says instead, low and rough.

“But you’re a _hero_ ,” Prince Steven argues, eyes hot and ready to fight anyone who dares say  otherwise, even Bucky himself.

But that only makes Bucky sick inside, soul twisted and broken as it is, undeserving of such proclamation. “I’m no hero,” he says, the weight of the dozens of lives he took in those three words.

Heroes do not have innocent blood on their hands.


	9. Steve

The days pass and Steve doesn’t go to visit Barnes again.

Not because he does not want to, but because he finds himself incredibly busy once the anniversary of the end of the war draws near. The celebration takes a lot from Steve, who needs to be up front and center, along with his Queen, to remind everyone of the strides they’ve made since they’ve achieved peace throughout the kingdoms.

Steve knows it’s important, this celebration. It’s a chance for people to rejoice, to feel alive, to count their blessings. He wishes he could feel like that and not the numbness that spreads through him once the day arrives, and he wishes he could remember all the battles they’ve won and not the lives they lost.

But Steve can’t. Not when some of those men who perished on the battlefield were his friends, his brothers.

It is because of the war that he is what he is: dreams made flesh. But his memories of those times aren’t good ones, for the most part. He found a sense of purpose in the fight, but killing, even when for the right cause, takes its toll on someone.

It is as they say: there are no real victories in war, only death and more death.

Steve still attends the feast, eats and drinks and plasters a smile on his face. He watches the performances, talks when spoken to, and stands beside his Queen when she addresses their people and tells them to enjoy themselves.

All the while, though, Steve’s mind keeps coming back to Barnes. As it always does, in one way or another.

Barnes’s words and the haunted expression he bore when he said them run in a loop through Steve’s head. They make him hurt, sharp and painful, piercing his heart. There is so much is those three little words that Steven can’t even begin to convey.

All he knows is that Barnes means them with his very soul. And that, more than anything, hurts Steve the worst.

 

**

 

“Did something happen with Mr. Barnes?”

Steve looks up at his Mother, watching her as he unpins her hair and lets the strands fall over her shoulders. They’re in her private chambers after another long day of audiences, Steve on the edge of her bed while she sits at her vanity table, now brushing her hair.

“Why do you ask?”

His Ma puts down her brush, turning around so she can stare at him. It makes Steve feel all of six years old, having her look at him with knowing eyes, her lips pressed together and her hands folded in her lap.

“You’ve been acting different,” she tells him. “Or more like yourself, as it happens.”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but you’re not making any sense.”

Steve is expecting it, but he does nothing to stop his Mother from getting up and flicking him in the forehead. He knows he deserves it.

“Don’t play doormat, Steven,” his Ma says, sitting down beside him and catching one of his hands with her small one.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles, shoulders slumping when his Mother starts rubbing circles across the back of his palm, fingers cold and soft.

“I’ve known you for thirty-two years,” she says, tightening her grip. “And I like to think I’ve been a good mother to you.”

“The best,” Steve says vehemently, dropping a kiss to her forehead. “You’re the best mother I could ask for.”

Sarah laughs a little, patting his cheek. “Thank you, Steve. As your mother, I _know_ you. And I know something changed within you when you met your young man.”

Steve flushes a little, clearing his throat. “He’s not my young man.”

And he isn’t, as it happens. Steve thinks them friends, but he is not sure Barnes agrees. And to go from that to them being _an item_ is a leap.

“Mr. Barnes, then,” she corrects herself, the slight smile she’s still sporting slipping when she continues, “I also know something has changed these past few days. When you were happy before, as happy as I’ve seen you since you were but a little boy, now you’re withdrawn again, sad,” his Ma raises a hand and touches the furrow of his brows, trying to smooth it with her thumb, “grumpy.”

Steve snorts. “I’m not grumpy.”

“I see you haven’t denied the rest.”

Steve lets out a slow breath, letting go of his Mother’s hand and getting up. He runs his fingers through his hair, messing up his bangs.

He can’t exactly deny things that aren’t true, unless he lies to his Mother and Queen. He knows if he does, the end result will be the same: her staring at him in disappointment until he can’t handle the guilt, cracks, and tells her the truth anyway.

He’d rather keep his dignity, thank you very much.

“I think I messed up, Ma.”

Steve more than thinks, he knows.

The past month and a half with Barnes have been wonderful. They did have a rough start, but after this time of getting to know each other, Steve likes to think of them as friends. The time they spent together is everything Steve never knew he craved for himself: the companionship, comfortable silences, watching the fruit of his work take life in front of his eyes.

And Steve cannot deny his Mother’s words. He has been happy, the happiest he can remember being, these last few weeks he’s been around Barnes. There is something incredibly soothing about spending time with Barnes and helping him with his tasks. It is grounding for Steve; it makes him feel like _himself_ , like the man he is and not the just the crown he holds.

He didn’t think they would have much in common, when he first decided to make his visits. He’s glad to be proven wrong, though. As it turns out they share many interests, and Barnes is an excellent conversationalist when he is talking about something he is passionate about. In fact, Steve thinks he could listen to Barnes for the rest of his life, whenever he gets that spark in his eyes as he talks about a subject he deems interesting.

Steve is happy to have Barnes be a part of his life, which is why he feels like he’s mucked things up.

“What happened?” his Ma asks, calm and willing to help.

Steve doesn’t really want to tell her the specifics, as it feels kind of like a break of Barnes’s trust. But he values his Mother’s advice, so he settles for saying, “I was trying to do something nice for him, but I think I ended up crossing one of his boundaries.”

He doesn’t wish to speak about the hurt Barnes’s words caused him. He knows his Mother won’t be able to help with that. That is something Steve needs to figure out for himself how to address. Even though he has no idea how to get Barnes to believe he is worthy or praise and deserving of being called a hero.

“That is vague,” his Ma comments, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t want to break his trust even further by telling you something I shouldn’t,” Steve replies, scrubbing a hand over his face.

He’s learned his lesson, somewhat.

“Well, did you mean him any harm when you did it?”

Steve shakes his head. “The opposite. I just wanted…,” he trails off, voice small. “I just wanted people to see him like I do.”

And he did. He wanted people to see what _he_ sees in Bucky: how smart and kind and witty he is, and that he’s one of the most amazing guys Steve has ever met.

Sarah smiles at him then, a kind smile filled with so much fondness Steve can’t help but sit down on the bed again and hug her around the waist, his head tucked under her chin. It’s a little uncomfortable, seeing as he’s a man grown and not a boy any longer, but the familiar smell of flowers lingering on his Ma’s clothes is comforting and helps him feel better. She pats his back, pressing a light kiss to his forehead.

“Sincere apologies always go a long way,” she tells him. “Especially if you make it clear that you know you did wrong and _what_ it was that you did.”

“What if he doesn’t want to talk to me again?” Steve asks, miserable.

Sarah tugs at his ear, making him wince. “You’re a brave boy. You’ve faced a lot of things worse than the man you like being angry at you.”

That is true. Steve has faced battlefields, armies, and kings. He’s faced sickness and his Mother’s tears and more pain than one could bare. He has faced his own death and other impossible things, and he has come out on the other side of it all.

But all of those things were easy, compared with this.

“This is scarier,” Steve confesses, not even bothering to deny he likes Barnes.

It would be useless, after all, since Steve does like him. Maybe even more so than just _likes_.

Steve can’t even bring up a spark of surprise at that realization. He knows it was only a matter of time before he found himself falling in love with Barnes, and it seems it has happened when he wasn’t looking.

“Matters of the heart are always scary,” his Ma says, pushing his hair away from his forehead. “But you, Steven Grant, are capable of great many things. This one included.”

“You have too much faith in me.”

“Well, you are my son.”

Steve feels his Mother’s laughter against his cheek, the sound echoing through the room. He hugs her tighter.

 

**

 

Steve doesn’t go back to Barnes’s.

Not yet.

Steve still feels off balance, guilty, unsure of himself, especially when the newfound realization of his feelings for Barnes come up. When he shows up, he wants to know what he’s going to say so he doesn’t end up making a mess of things again. So he spends the next few days thinking and thinking and thinking of how to apologize, so much so it starts interfering with his daily tasks.

“Okay, I can’t take this anymore.”

Steve startles, almost dropping his shield when Sam whacks it with his sword. “What?”

“You’re distracted,” Sam tells him, putting away his sword and giving up all pretense to keep training, his hands coming to rest on his hips.

“I’m not,” Steve argues, jutting his chin.

“I’ve hit you four times in the last hour,” Sam points out, judging. “You’re distracted.”

“I’m fine,” Steve protests, jaw clenched.

“You’re—”

“I’m not distracted!”

“— _pining_ ,” Sam finishes, triumph written across his face when Steve gapes at him. “See? You can’t even deny it.”

“It’s not—”

Sam raises a hand, shutting him up. “Don’t even try it. I’ve known you long enough to recognize that look. That’s your _I like someone and I’m suffering_ look.”

“I don’t have a look,” Steve says, sullen.

“Help me out here, guys.” Sam turns to Steve’s knights, paired up while they do they own drills.

“His Highness does have a look,” America agrees, circling Dame Bishop, sword in hand.

“It makes him look like a kicked puppy,” Sir Kaplan offers, flushing scarlet when that brings everyone’s attention to him. “No offense, Your Highness.”

“He’s not offended,” Sam says, ignoring Steve’s sputtering.

“He misses his Bucky,” Kate pipes up as she defends an attack from America. “We haven’t visited in over two weeks. That’s why he’s so sad.”

“I think they had a fight,” Sir Bradley adds, wiping sweat off his brow.

“Oh, really?” Sam perks up, deeply interested in where the conversation is going.

Which is why Steve throws his shield and sword to the ground and grabs Sam by the arm. “We’re leaving,” he tells him, and then turns to his guard. “And all of you are on night duty from now on until I tell you otherwise.”

Steve feels a little bad as he walks back to the palace, but he knows the punishment is deserved. Not even Sam attempts to joke once they’re inside, shrugging out of Steve’s grip.

“Sam,” Steve starts, but stops when Sam shakes his head at him.

“I’m the one who’s sorry, man,” Sam says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I didn’t mean to push and pry if you’re not ready to talk about it.”

Steve nods, bumping their shoulders together. “Thanks. It’s just… I think he’s mad at me, and I don’t know how to apologize.”

Sam rears back, eyebrows lifting up to his hairline. “You haven’t been back because you think he’s mad at you and you don’t know what to say?”

Steve shrugs, refusing to meet Sam’s eyes.

“Listen, Steve,” Sam says, voice low and gentle, “I can’t tell you what to do. I’m not you, and I don’t know this Barnes guy. I can only give you a piece of advice.”

“Please,” Steve breathes out, not caring how pathetic he sounds.

Sam has seen him in worse states, and Steve can’t find it in himself to feel ashamed in front of one of his closest friends.

Sam’s expression softens. “Go to him. If not to make peace, then at least to know where you stand. You were never one to run away from your problems, and this doesn’t seem like a good time to start.”

Steve snorts. “That’s helpful.”

“As for what to say,” Sam shrugs, “I can’t help you there. Only you know what went on between you too, so only you can find the words to make it better. But I think as long as you speak from the heart, you’ll do fine.”

Steve looks up at Sam, lips twitching. “Speak from the heart? That’s sweet, Sam.”

Sam rolls his eyes, putting a hand on Steve’s face and pushing him away. “Shut up.”

Steve laughs, letting himself take a step backward. When he straightens up, he reaches out an arm and pulls Sam into a hug, clapping him on the back. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says, voice muffled against Steve’s armor. “Just promise me you’ll go to him.”

Steve pulls back. “Right now?”

“Yes.” Sam nods. “I can’t handle any more of your pining.”

Steve starts to protest, “I’m not—”

“ _Go_!”

 

**

 

Steve is more nervous than he has ever been as he makes his way down the forest road, the silence of the trees a big contrast to the loud beating of his heart.

His guard accompanies him, wearing both wary and hopeful expressions. They’ve apologized for their behavior in the yard, though their punishment still holds, except for only a week this time. This means they are as quiet as they were trained to be while they ride, keeping their thoughts to themselves. If it wasn’t for the thumbs up Dame Bishop and Sir Kaplan send him when they get to Barnes’s house, he wouldn’t know what they think of all of this at all.

The house is quiet when Steve arrives, so Steve makes his way around it and to one of the gardens out back. He finds Barnes and Strider lying down on the grass by the herbs, both of them basking in the morning sun.

Barnes looks so beautiful, with his eyes closed and posture relaxed, that Steve’s breath catches in his throat.

Strider, of course, hears him. He gets up and trots up to Steve, tail wagging when Steve crouches down to pet him. When Steve looks up again, Barnes is sitting up, hair loose, a few strands framing his face.

Steve takes two steps and kneels in front of him, heart in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out before Barnes can ask him what he’s doing here. “I never meant to make you uncomfortable or to upset you in any way, and I apologize if I did. I’m so sorry if I crossed any of your boundaries and pushed too far when I told people about what you did for me.” Steve licks his lips, staring into Barnes’s wide eyes. “Just because I thought it was something people should know, doesn’t mean you agreed. And since it affects you, I should have asked before I said anything. I’m sorry about that. And I’ll try my hardest to never do something like that again.”

Barnes stares at him, eyes round and like he can’t quite believe what he just heard. Steve kneels and waits, stomach in knots, for him to say something. Anything.

But Barnes just stares, almost as if he’s looking _through_ Steve, and right into his very soul.

Steve doesn’t know how long they stand there, in silence, gazes meeting. He’s glad to stay that way, forever if Barnes wishes him to, until he decides to tell Steve whether he forgives him or never wants to see him again.

Forever is not what Barnes seems to have in mind, though, as he lets out a slow breath, the lines on his face smoothing out. “Thank you,” he says, and it resonates through the space between them. “I accept your apology.”

Steve nods, but he can’t help but ask, “Do you forgive me?”

Because there is a world of difference between acceptance and forgiveness.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Bucky says, a faint smile on his lips. “I forgive you.”

“Please, call me Steve,” Steve tells him, his own lips curling up despite himself, joy too bright on his chest to be contained.

“Steve,” Barnes says, pink lips shaping sounds. “You can call me Bucky, if you wish.”

“I wish,” Steve admits, smile turning into a grin. “So, what are we doing today, Bucky?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“What?” Steve’s smile slips, replaced with sheer horror.

He’d forgotten that Bucky could forgive him and still not want him around.

“We could take a walk,” Bucky explains, tucking a loose strand of her behind his ear. “What do you think?”

Steve looks at him, heart hammering in his chest, and says, “I think that sounds wonderful.”


	10. Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings** for this chapter: mentions of past character death and very brief passive suicidal ideation on bucky's part. **details at the end!**

The forest is thick and silent around them, the only sounds the ones their feet make when they touch the ground. Strider forges ahead, walking in between trees and jumping over roots, sometimes circling back to them, pressing against their legs before he’s off again.

Bucky and Prince — and _Steve_ — walk at a more sedate pace, the guard following a few feet behind. They don’t speak as they walk, just enjoy the comfortable silence that settles around them. Bucky sneaks a few glances in Steve’s direction, pleased to find him looking around and taking in their beautiful surroundings, awe on his face.

“Is this all yours?” Steve asks, voice hushes but still loud in between the trees.

Bucky likes being here, surrounded by green and life and the scent of damp earth. It makes something settle deep within him, even more so when he sees how much it suits Steve and how much he seems to like it, his eyes bright and alive as he glances around.

“I think this forest is more yours than mine,” Bucky tells him, lips twitching when Steve makes a displeased face at him.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Bucky admits. “And no, this isn’t all mine. Though I wish…”

There are a lot of things Bucky wishes and wants, nothing but mere words in his mind. He knows better than to listen to wishes, so as not to be disappointed later when life comes around and spits in his face.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes out, eyes soft. “I know what you mean.”

Bucky licks his lips, considering the man walking next to him.

Steve is so _unlike_ anyone Bucky has ever met, royalty or otherwise.

It is not that difficult to be, if Bucky is being honest with himself. Not when, aside from all the conversation he’s had with Steve and a few with Lady Martinelli, most of the people Bucky spent more than a handful of minutes talking to were the people who captured him.

It is still remarkable, all the same. And Bucky still finds himself a little fascinated by it, by Steve, by how good he is. Maybe even more so than a little, sometimes.

It’s the goodness that catches Bucky off guard, most of all.

He’s known Kings to be angry and greedy and ruthless, even the fair ones. Aside from Her Majesty Queen Sarah, he’s never heard of anyone being kind. It seems the trait follows on with Steve.

Steve, who is genuinely _good_ and who has shown he cares about Bucky’s feelings and opinions and thoughts. Steve, who can recognize his mistakes and apologizes for them. Steve, who looks so enamoured by what his kingdom has to offer, as if he had no idea all of this was out there.

“One would think you’d know about this place,” Bucky muses, ducking his head so he can walk under a branch, a few of the leaves brushing against his hair.

“One would think many things that are untrue, Mr. Barnes,” Steve answers, as loftily as possible.

It makes Bucky huff out a small laugh, to hear him speak like this. “Please don’t ever do that again. It makes you sound like an ass.”

Steve grins. “Oh my, Mr. Barnes, why don’t you tell me what you really think?”

Bucky scrunches up his nose. “It’s _Bucky_ , and I won’t. A man has to keep a few secrets.”

More than just a few, but no one needs to know that.

Steve’s grin slips a little, understanding blooming across his face. “That’s okay,” he says, and then changes the subject, much to Bucky’s relief. “And to answer your question, I don’t get much of a chance to wander around places by myself, especially ones as far off and isolated as this one.”

“If I remember correctly, the reason we met was because you wandered off by yourself.”

Steve flushes a little, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. “I usually don’t get as far as I did that day. Mostly I hang around town until someone finds me.”

“Ah,” Bucky says, nodding in understanding. “So that was your unlucky day. The first time you go exploring and someone tries to kill you.”

“Or my lucky day,” Steve offers, eyes glinting when he glances at Bucky. “I guess it depends on which part of it I’m focusing on.”

Bucky gapes, and in his distraction he accidentally trips over a root on the ground. He catches himself before he falls face first on the forest ground, straightening up and tucking his hair behind his ear, completely ignoring the wide smile Steve sends his way.

Steve can’t possibly be implying that he considers meeting Bucky _good luck_. That is just… That is not… No. He can’t possibly.

Or maybe he is. Maybe he is saying exactly what Bucky thinks his saying. Which only makes Bucky’s stomach flip and his heart clench and his palms feel sweaty, for some kind of reason.

“Well,” Bucky says, not proud of the way his voice weavers. “Well.”

“Eloquent,” Steve deadpans, but obviously looking quite pleased with himself.

Bucky can feel blood rush to his cheeks, which he ignores, and quickens his pace, leaving Steve a few steps behind. Steve doesn’t try to catch up, something Bucky is grateful for. It gives him a few minutes to gather himself, thoughts trying to wrap around the concept that maybe Steve enjoys spending time with him more than he lets on.

He knows Steve feels more like himself when he’s around Bucky, but that is because he’s said as much when Bucky asked him why he kept coming back to the house. Bucky just never thought it might be something more than that, at least on Steve’s part.

Well, if Bucky is being honest, he still doesn’t know that. It might just be that Steve considers him a friend, and nothing more. No matter what Bucky thinks or doesn’t think. No matter what he tries to tell himself.

And no matter what he wishes them to be.

 

**

 

“Oh wow.”

Bucky turns to Steve, almost smiling at the look of childish wonder on his face. They’ve stopped at a small stream, the sunlight reflecting in the water and making it glow bright. It is almost as if there are hundreds of golden coins lost deep under it all, shining under the morning sun.

“I know,” Bucky mutters, sitting down on the grass.

“How did you find this place?” Steve asks, walking to the stream and bending down so he can stick his hands into the water.

Bucky’s mouth goes a bit dry at the sight Steve makes: thick thighs and his ass in the air, right on Bucky’s line of sight. He only stops staring when he hears someone cough a little ways behind him, and turns around to see the entirety of Steve’s guard _smiling_ at him.

Bucky glares at them, more out of embarrassment than anything else, until one by one they look away. The last one to do so is a young woman with brown skin and curly hair, who gives him a thumb up before she, too, goes back to guarding their surroundings.

Bucky has no idea what she could possible mean. Not at all, no sir.

“Buck?”

Bucky closes his eyes, the nickname falling so easily from Steve’s lips not helping _at all_. “Yeah?”

When he opens his eyes again, Steve is sitting down beside him, brows furrowed in concern.

“You okay?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, and it is only half a lie. “I’m okay.”

“Right.” Steve raises an eyebrow at him, obviously not believing it.

“I’m fine,” Bucky sighs.

Or he is as fine as he’s going to be, all things considered.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Steve prompts him, leaning back on his elbows and stretching his legs out in front of him.

Steve’s bangs fall across his forehead, hair almost white under the light, making the blue of his eyes even more striking. His cheeks are flushed, and little freckles cover the bridge of his nose, making him look younger than his years.

And beautiful, not that Bucky is going to say that out loud.

“I have trouble sleeping, sometimes,” Bucky finds himself saying, a little more honest than he meant to be. But when he sees the interest in Steve’s eyes, sharp focus all on Bucky, he can’t help but continue, “So I go on walks to clear my head. I came across this place during one of them, and couldn’t stay away.”

“It’s beautiful,” Steve says quietly, eyes never leaving Bucky’s.

Bucky digs his fingers into the ground beneath him, all so he can hide the shiver that runs down his spine. “It is,” he agrees, lowering his gaze. “Especially at night. You can lie down and see all of the stars from here, and the moon, when it's full, reflects across the water and makes everything glow white.”

“I’d very much like to see that one day,” Steve tells him, and the smile he gives Bucky is sweet and filled with longing.

Bucky takes a deep breath, staring at Steve from under his lashes. “If you can get away from all of your princely duties, maybe we can come back here.”

Steve’s smile turns into a grin, big and excited. “I’d like that.”

 

**

 

“What made you want to live around these parts?”

They’re still by the stream, but now sitting under the shade of a tree after Bucky noticed Steve’s cheeks getting too pink. Strider is by the water, drinking a little to cool himself down.

Bucky shrugs. “It seemed like a good idea.”

And it had, after years of wandering around like a fugitive, too scared to stay in one town for long in case someone found him. But as peace settled across the lands, and Pierce’s people were captured and killed, finding a place of his own seemed more and more attractive to Bucky. He’d missed having a home, and he wanted the opportunity to make one for himself again. Even if it was just for him to enjoy.

“What about your family? Don’t they miss you?”

At the mention of his family, Bucky’s heart turns to stone. It cracks and it hurts and it weighs him down, crushing his chest and stealing his breath. The words, when he says them, hurt even more.

“I don’t have a family.”

Steve’s mouth drops open, surprise and understanding flashing through his eyes. Bucky can see anger there as well, sadness and pain.

“What happened to them?” Steve asks, as much as Bucky wishes him not to.

Which is why he gets up, anger and hurt coursing through him. “I’m not talking about this with you,” he snaps, giving his back to Steve and walking away.

What happened to them?

What happened to them?

_They died_ , Bucky wants to scream. They were murdered right in front of him, when Bucky was captured, as if they were cattle and not human beings. As if they didn’t matter. As if they weren’t Bucky’s entire world.

Bucky’s eyes brim with unshed tears, hands curling so hard into fists that his nails dig into his palms. The pain is a sharp reminder that he’s here, alive, and not dead like them. Bucky both loves and hates that his heart still beats, that his lungs still work, that his body didn’t perish as he wished it to so many times.

Bucky does not walk far. Strider stops him by running across his path and then jumping on him, making him fall on his back. The air rushes out of his lungs and leaves him gasping, which unfortunately means he gets Strider’s tongue in his mouth when the dog starts licking his face. It is enough to bring him back to his body, to this time, if only so he can cough and make a disgusted face at what is his life.

“Gross.” Bucky grimaces, trying to push Strider off of him. “I’m fine, you stupid dog.”

Strider barks, nudging Bucky’s cheek with his nose. They both know Bucky is lying.

“Bucky?”

Bucky tilts his head, watching as Steve runs up to them, his eyes wide and worried.

“I’m fine,” Bucky says to him, only to have Strider bark again and lick him on the forehead.

Bucky sighs, going limp on the ground and resigning himself to what’s happening. It seems to be the response Strider wants, seeing as he takes that as permission to squirm around and plop himself on top of Bucky, his head resting on Bucky’s chest. Bucky lifts his head up a little, making an annoyed sound in the back of his throat when Strider sticks his tongue out one more time and licks him on the nose.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Steve asks, slowly kneeling down beside them.

Bucky lets out a deep breath, bringing a hand up to wipe at the dog spit on his face and the other to rest on Strider’s head. “Not really,” he says, and then laughs at himself.

Because he isn’t. He hasn’t been for a long time.

“Can I do anything to help?”

When Bucky glances at Steve, it’s to find Steve leaning over him, hands braced on his knees, expression eager and open and a little worried. And Bucky is struck again by how _good_ Steve is, how beautiful, and it makes him hurt all over again, but in a different way.

“You can accept my apology,” Bucky answers, licking his lips and making no move to get up. It feels nice here, on the forest floor, Strider on top of him and Steve towering over him.

Steve’s eyes widen. “Buck, you don’t have—”

“I do,” Bucky argues. “I’m sorry I snapped. It’s just… It’s hard to talk about them.”

“Then you don’t have to,” Steve says quietly, smiling a sad smile.

Bucky nods, although he thinks he’ll want to, one day. He also tries to get up, only succeeding as far as sitting, Strider sprawled on his lap. It makes _him_ smile a little, to know he has Strider on his corner, always there to tackle him to the ground and make a nuisance of himself until Bucky feels better.

Bucky sighs, running a hand through his hair. He knows Steve is watching him, following his movements, and that also helps him breathe a little easier.

“I’ve—,” Bucky starts, stops himself, clear his throat. “I’ve been alone for a long time. So all of this,” he gestures between them, not really finding the right words to convey what he means, “doesn’t come easy to me. Not anymore. And there are some things I don’t know how to talk about, never learned to.”

Bucky isn’t prepared for the way Steve’s face crumples, deep sadness shining in his eyes. It almost makes Bucky’s breath catch, makes him want to reach out a hand and pull Steve to him, gather him into his arms. It is Steve’s words, though, more than his expression, that almost knock Bucky to the ground again.

“I’m sorry,” Steve tells him, extending a hand and placing it beside Bucky’s own on the ground, their fingers almost touching. “I’m sorry you’ve been alone, because you never should be.”

Bucky can feel the heat of Steve, the warmth of him, so close he could touch. He lets out a shaky breath, heart clenching in his chest, a lump in his throat. He knows Steve means what he’s said, and the words touch Bucky so deeply they leave him without knowing what to do.

So it’s a good thing when Strider barks again, and gets up only long enough so he can lick a stripe up Bucky’s cheek and to his temple. Bucky laughs, scrunching up his nose, hands coming up to pet his dog.

“At least I have you, huh?” Bucky asks, dropping a kiss to Strider’s head.

A small sounds from Steve makes Bucky turn to him again, stomach flipping when he sees the fond look on Steve’s face, his lips quirked up in a smile. It makes Bucky flush, that look, his cheeks turning bright pink.

“What?”

Steve shakes his head, smile widening. “Nothing.”

Bucky narrows his eyes, tugging a few grass leaves from the ground and throwing them at Steve’s face. “Liar.”

Steve moves away and laughs, the sound making Bucky smirk, pleased with himself to evoke such a response from the Prince. It washes away the last traces of pain and grief from him, at least for this short amount of time when they are together.

At least until Steve ducks his head and licks his lips, eyes trained to their hands.

Bucky holds his breath when Steve moves closer, the tip of his fingers coming to rest over Bucky’s. The touch makes him shudder, something he knows Steve doesn’t miss, seeing as he presses down on Bucky’s fingers.

It is the first time they’re this close, _touching_. At least when they are both aware of it. Bucky doesn’t count the first time they met, Steve with blood all over him, his heart so weak, skin pale and sickly.

It is different now.

It is _more_.

Especially when Steve says, “And you have me, too.”

 

**

 

Bucky’s heart is light when they say their goodbyes.

He is sad to see Steve go, but this time there’s a hopefulness to it. He knows Steve will be back, knows they will see each other again. And Bucky looks forward to it.

He can finally admit it to himself.

They are friends, maybe a little more so than that. They both know it and they both like it.

And when Bucky flops down on his bed that night, skin still damp from his shower, and makes space for Strider when the dog jumps up and joins him on the bed, he can also admit something else.

In the dark of night, when no one is around, Bucky can finally say it out loud.

“I’m falling in love with him.”

Maybe.

Just a little bit.

Wishes and words.

And now reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of past character death: bucky mentions his family being dead.
very brief passive suicidal ideation on bucky's part: bucky very briefly wishes he was dead like his family is.



	11. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to myladyday and her grandpa for the scythe lawn mowing stuff <3
> 
> and hugs to everyone who catches the asoiaf references again ~

Things have changed.

And for the first time, not in a way Steve dislikes. Not in a way that leaves him worried or stressed or wishing they could go back to the way they were before.

Things have changed, between Steve and Bucky, and they have changed for the better.

They have gone from reluctant acquaintances to tentative friends to something entirely _new_. It is more than Steve ever expected to happen, though he wished. And now that it did? He couldn’t be happier.

Well, there is something that _could_ make him happier than he is, of course. That something being both of them admitting and _acting_ on that change.

As it stands, Steve thinks they are on that path, testing each other, pushing a little when they can, just to see each other’s reactions. The undercurrent of tension between them is still there, but now it has shifted, transformed. It does not come from wariness anymore, but of hope.

Steve makes note of it during his next visits, all the little ways in which things are now different. The teasing, the smiles and laughter, the _touching_. It makes him arrive at Bucky’s with a smile and come back to the Palace with an even wider grin across his face.

 

**

 

“What’s that dumb smile on your face for?” Bucky asks him as soon as he sees him, which only makes Steve smile deepen.

“Maybe I missed Strider and his tongue baths,” Steve answers, and a second later Strider is on him, paws on Steve’s knees and slobbering all over his face.

“No one misses _that_ ,” Bucky huffs, doing absolutely nothing to help.

“Maybe I missed something else, then,” Steve says lightly, looking at Bucky over Strider’s head, heart skipping a beat.

“The hard work?” Bucky teases, finally snapping his fingers and calling Strider back to him. “The stained clothes? Me bossing you around?”

Steve hums, tapping one finger on his chin, pretending to think about this answer. “Ehh, maybe the last one, a little bit.”

It’s enough to make Bucky turn rosy cheeked, surprise flashing across his face as it always does whenever Steve says something like that. Steve hopes one day that won’t happen. That instead of being surprised, Bucky will just smile at him instead.

“Well,” Bucky laughs a little, running his fingers through his hair, “we better get to it, then.”

“Yes, Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky rolls his eyes at him, all mock annoyance. “You won’t be saying that in a minute.”

“Why not?” Steve asks, following Bucky inside of his house.

Steve doesn’t stop himself from taking a deep breath once they step inside, shoulders relaxing when the scent of wood and peppermint and wet dog fills his nose. He knows it’s a little weird of him to love it so much, but he’s come to associate it with home away from home.

It’s in this place that he can be himself, whoever that is.

“We’re not doing gardening stuff today,” Bucky tells him, and Steve knows he’s in trouble when Bucky smirks, just a little quirk of his lips.

Steve groans. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.” Bucky claps him on the shoulder once and then turns around, making his way to the back of the house.

The touch startles Steve into going perfectly still. The warmth of Bucky’s rough palm still lingers, the impression of it sending shivers down Steve’s spine. It’s the first time they’ve touched since that day by the stream, and back then it was nothing more than a press of fingers.

This is different. This is more. This was initiated by Bucky, and that thought alone makes blood rush to Steve’s cheeks.

It’s enough to make him forget what they are about to do. At least until Bucky comes back, scythes in hand, and a sly grin on his face. Then Steve flushes for an entire different reason.

There is something about Bucky with a weapon that looks both incredibly dangerous and enticing. Whether it be a knife or a scythe, Bucky shows skill, and Steve knows he hasn’t learned it only from doing his work.

Steve  wants to ask, sometimes. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t ask where Bucky learned to handle weapons, and he doesn’t ask where Bucky learned to heal wounds until they were but mere memories.

“Do we really have to cut grass?” Steve whines, just because he can.

Bucky shrugs. “I do. You could just get on your horse and leave, if you think this is too difficult for you.”

Steve narrows his eyes.

They both know he won’t leave, both because he wants to spend some time with Bucky and because a challenge has been placed.

“Give me that,” Steve grumbles, grabbing hold of the scythe, careful not to accidentally cut himself.

Bucky lets out a small laugh. “Don’t forget to—”

“Bend my knees, I got it.”

Steve doesn’t get it, not really.

He forgets to keep the blade flat on the ground, and his grip on the scythe is too tight. It means he butchers the grass more than he cuts it, not that Bucky seems bothered by it. In fact, he stops every once in a while to laugh or yell at Steve, his grey-blue eyes so bright and lips so pink Steve wants to grab him and kiss him.

But Steve doesn’t.

Not yet.

 

**

 

“Angie asked me to see if you could spare her some extra tomatoes on your next delivery.”

Bucky frowns at him, gathering his hair at the back of his neck and putting it up in a ponytail. “I’ll have to see.”

“She sent a lemon-blueberry loaf as incentive,” Steve tells him, bringing his hands from behind his back and presenting Bucky with a wrapped package.

“Now, why didn’t you start with that?” Bucky smiles, making grabby hands for the baked good and sitting down at the table when he gets it.

“I was hoping to keep it for myself,” Steve sighs, shaking his head. “But now I know not even the crumbs will survive.”

Bucky, who has already unwrapped the loaf and teared a piece of it, stuffing it in his mouth, has the grace to look a little guilty. It makes Steve grin, enamored. So much so he doesn’t even mind not getting to eat Angie’s food at all.

“Are you telling me she didn’t send muffins with it?” Bucky asks, raising an eyebrow at Steve.

It’s Steve’s turn to look a little guilty, but he stands his ground. “No one can prove it.”

Bucky snorts. “Sure I can’t, pal.”

Steve doesn’t think about one of the ways Bucky _can_ prove it: by kissing him. Instead, he sits down and picks up one of the many books lying around Bucky’s place, their feet bumping against each other under the table.

“ _The Long Night_ ,” Steve reads out loud. “Sounds boring.”

“You’d be surprised,” Bucky says around a mouthful, licking his lips.

It shows how far gone Steve is that he think it’s adorable and not disgusting.

“It’s even more boring?” Steve asks, thumbing to the first page.

“The opposite,” Bucky answers, eyes glued to the book. “It made me a little afraid.”

“What?” Steve scowls down at the book, ready to take it away and burn it if Bucky wishes him to.

“Down, boy,” Bucky jokes, and Strider looks up at them from his spot on the floor, tilting his head in confusion. “Not you,” Bucky clarifies, bending down so he can pet Strider. “You’re good.”

Strider huffs as if to agree, lapping at Bucky’s fingers.

“It made you afraid of what?” Steve asks, turning the book around in his hands, still not convinced that he shouldn’t take it as far away from Bucky as possible.

Bucky looks down at his hands, shifting a little in his chair. “Of being out here.”

Steve’s heart clenches in his chest, catching the words Bucky is not saying. “I told you,” he says, trapping one of Bucky’s feet between his calves, squeezing a little when Bucky doesn’t move away. “You have me, too.”

For as long as Bucky wants him.

And Steve knows that as far as _he_ is concerned, Bucky will never have to be alone again.

 

**

 

“What happened to you?”

Steve rushes to Bucky, torn between laughter and genuine concern. He stops short of reaching out and grabbing Bucky by the shoulders, instead standing in front of him, hands up.

“Nothing,” Bucky replies, the movement pulling at the sunburnt skin around his face, forcing a grimace out of him.

“Buck,” Steve takes another step closer, fingers gently coming to rest beneath Bucky’s chin, tilting his head up, “did you fall asleep in the sun?”

Bucky’s entire face is red, some of the skin on the bridge of his nose already peeling out. Steve knows that if he’d only spend some time lying around as he usually does, basking in the sun, he’d get tanned instead of burnt. So this means Bucky ended up falling asleep without anything to protect him from the sun.

“No,” Bucky lies, avoiding Steve’s gaze.

“Bucky.”

Bucky sighs, shoulders slumping. “I was tired.”

“You have an entire forest behind your house,” Steve says, exasperated. “You could’ve at least sat down under the shade of a tree.”

“I like the sun on my face,” Bucky murmurs, and then hisses when Steve pokes him on the cheek.

“You can like the sun on your face when someone other than your dog is here to tell you to _move_.”

“Whatever,” Bucky says, sullen.

Steve shakes his head at him, dropping his hand. “Do you have any salve?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just gives his back to Steve and goes to his room. Steve takes a few seconds until he follows, a little unsure if he’s welcome. Bucky can obviously hear his footsteps, so when Steve doesn’t hear any yells for him to get out, he sits gingerly on the bed, hands folded across his lap.

It’s strange being in Bucky’s room, but in a good way. It’s another little piece of Bucky that he’s sharing with Steve, one that Steve gets to keep for himself. And it is one that teaches Steve a lot about Bucky, from the dog fur on his sheets to the book peaking out from under his pillow to the hair ties on the bedside table to the open window facing the forest.

Bucky comes back a minute later, a small bowl in his hand. He barely hesitates when he sees Steve on the bed, which is enough to make Steve second-guess himself and pretty much his entire life, but then he sits down on the mattress, his knee pushing against Steve’s thigh.

“Don’t make me look stupid,” Bucky grumbles as he hands the bowl to Steve.

“You already look stupid,” Steve says back, and then laughs at Bucky’s affronted look. “You look like one of your tomatoes, bright red and shiny.”

Steve bets Bucky tastes good, too. Not that he’ll say anything or try to see for himself.

“And here I thought I was the prettiest in all the lands,” Bucky sighs, pouting a little.

Steve sets down the bowl in his lap. “Is that why you fell asleep in the sun? Wanted to work on your tan?”

Bucky glares at him, and then mumbles, “I got distracted.”

“I bet.” Steve grabs one of the hair ties and gives it to Bucky. “Put your hair up. Don’t want to get any of this gooey stuff on it.”

“Doubt it’ll make a difference,” Bucky sighs, but moves to do as Steve says. “If what you’re saying it’s true, I already look a disaster.”

“And that’s different from how you normally look how?” Steve teases, watching as Bucky pulls his hair back and ties it in a small bun.

“Aren’t we full of sass today, huh?” Bucky says dryly. “Did someone piss in your boots?”

“No.” Steve shakes his head, smiling a little. “Just in a good mood, I guess.”

“This is you in a good mood?” Bucky asks, and then snorts. “Figures.”

“C’mon.” Steve shifts a little closer. “Let’s take care of this.”

A few stubborn strands fall loose from the bun at the back of Bucky’s head, brushing his temples and cheeks. Steve slowly brings up a hand, giving Bucky a chance to move away or stop him if he wants to, and tucks the hair behind Bucky’s ears, fingers lightly tracing the soft skin of his neck. Bucky shivers at the touch, but doesn’t pull away.

“Okay?” Steve asks him, more to reassure himself than anything.

“Yes.” Bucky gives him a small smile. “Get to it, Steve.”

Steve scoops some salve on his fingers, taking great care not to press down too hard on Bucky’s face as he spreads the ointment on his cheeks and nose. Bucky stays still during all of it, posture relaxed, his eyes tracking each and every one of Steve’s movements.

Steve himself isn’t at all relaxed, body tight with tension at being so close to Bucky, heart beating rapidly in his chest. Bucky’s skin is hot under his fingers, soft, his breath ghosting over the thin skin of Steve’s bare wrist whenever he exhales.

Steve wants to keep touching him forever.

So much so he doesn’t notice he’s stopped spreading salve and started tracing the sharp line of Bucky’s cheekbone with his thumb. At least not until that line softens when Bucky smiles, his fingers wrapping loosely around Steve’s wrist and holding on.

“Okay?” Bucky is the one to ask this time around, leaning into Steve’s touch.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes out, dazed. “Okay.”

Bucky lets out a small laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners. The sounds wraps itself around Steve’s heart and there makes it its home, leaving Steve dazed and even more so in love.

Bucky squeezes Steve’s wrist once, and then lets go. “Am I gooey enough?”

Steve gulps, dropping his hand. Bucky’s face is shiny and sticky, but looking a little less irritated. He doesn’t look any less beautiful, even with salve all over his face and smelling like aloe.

“I think you’ll do,” Steve answers. “As long as you stay in the shade until you look less like someone tried to cook you.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Bucky jokes.

And then, lightening quick and much to Steve’s horror, he grabs Steve by the wrist and presses his gooey palm to Steve’s own face, smearing his cheek and forehead with salve.

Steve gasps and leans back. He tries to look mad, but the sound of Bucky’s laughter echoing through the room, his eyes closed and body shaking with it, are enough to make Steve smile instead.

A smile that lasts him well into the next day.

 

**

 

Steve knows there’s talk in the Palace about him. It is nothing new, and it never will be.

People wonder what has made their Crown Prince so obviously happy, especially when before Steve hadn’t been known to smile much. No one knows the reason, aside from Steve’s closest friends, his guard, and his Mother. It seems they only see fit to gossip amongst themselves, but they keep Steve’s secrets close to their hearts.

Unless they decide to tease Steve about it.

“Did you kiss him yet?” Sam asks him, trying to trip Steve on the way to the kitchens.

Steve sidesteps him and pushes him away and into one of the stone columns, smiling smugly when Sam loses his footing and almost falls on his ass. “Shut up.”

“You haven’t yet.” Sam looks disappointed, but at the slight flush on Steve’s cheeks he smirks. “But you _want to_.”

Of course Steve wants to, not that he tells Sam that. He doesn’t need to, he knows, for Sam can see it in his face.

“When you kiss,” Sam leans in to whisper, eyes glinting, “there will be sparks.”

So Steve hopes.

 

**

 

“Sorry I have to leave earlier,” Steve says, scowling.

His guard is already mounted, just waiting for him so they can get going.

Bucky waves him off, hair wet with sweat and flecks of dirt on his cheek, skin tanned from the sun. “It’s okay. You have more important things to do.”

“You’re important,” Steve tells him, voice sharp and commanding, breaking no room for argument.

Bucky’s eyes widen at the tone, eyebrows raising. “Okay,” he says slowly, lips twitching. “I’m important.”

Steve’s heart leaps in his chest, and when he speaks it is softer than before, “Yes, you are.”

“If you say so,” Bucky replies, shrugging one shoulder, still half smiling.

Steve pulls his shoulders back and tilts his chin up. “I’m Crown Prince and I do say so.”

Bucky rolls his eyes at him, finally letting a real smile shine through. “You’re a dumbass, is what you are.”

Steve laughs, can’t help himself. “Takes one to know one.”

Bucky shakes his head and bites down on his bottom lip, considering. Whatever it is he decides makes him take three steps forward until he’s leaning into Steve’s space, his arms coming around Steve’s shoulders, hugging him tight.

Steve is frozen solid for about two seconds before he makes himself pull Bucky to him, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist. It is the most they’ve touched until now, their chests flush together, Bucky’s cheek pressed against his, their arms around each other.

Steve can feel Bucky’s heartbeat against his chest, just as fast as his own.

The hug lasts either five seconds or forever, Steve can’t really tell. All he knows is that he makes a small displeased sound when Bucky pulls away, taking the warmth and Steve’s heart with him.

“Now go, before they send someone after you,” Bucky says, cheeks pink and eyes bright.

“I’ll be back,” Steve promises, and is reward with another real smile.

“I know. Until next time.”

“Until next time.”

 

**

 

There is a song in Steve’s heart.

One that has taken root there since Bucky gathered him close and let Steve pull him into his arms. It stays there, coloring Steve’s days, bringing a flush to his cheeks and a smile to his face.

“Will I ever meet this young man you’re clearly in love with?”

Steve’s smile doesn’t slip when his Mother turns to him. They’re alone in one of the council rooms, parchment and maps spread out on the table in front of them, after a day of making plans and deals.

“How do you know?” Steve asks her, setting down his quill and looking at her.

His Mother is smiling as big as Steve has ever seen her.

“A mother always knows,” she says, and then winks at him.

“ _Ma_.”

“It is simple, really,” his Mother says, reaching out a hand and cupping his cheek. “I know because you look exactly like I used to feel whenever I was with your Father. Lucky and in love.”

“Yeah?” Steve whispers, looking both pleased and incredibly happy and maybe a little scared.

Because he wants that. He wants Bucky at this side, now and in a future where he has to rule.

His Mother nods, sliding her hand so he can grab his chin between her fingers. “Invite your young man to dinner, Steve, I want to meet him.” That is when Steve feels a moment of panic. A moment his Ma sure does not miss, making her narrow her eyes, “Unless you don’t want us to meet.”

“It’s not that,” Steve explains, taking his Ma’s hand in his own. “It’s just… He doesn’t like being the center of attention.”

His Mother frowns. “We could have a private dinner, if it would make you both more comfortable, but Steve…”

“Ma—”

“The center of attention is where we always are,” his Mother says, eyes sad. “If you wish to be with him, that is something you both need to talk about.”

Steve swallows around a lump in his throat. Those are thoughts he’s been avoiding, but he knows he’ll have to address them soon. Steve can’t walk away from who he is, as much as he wishes to sometimes.

“I know,” Steve sighs, dropping his head so his forehead rests against the back of his Mother’s hand. “I know.”

He feels his Mother press a kiss to the top of his head. “Let me know what you decide so preparations can be made. And Steve,” she squeezes his hand, making him look up, “good luck.”

 

**

 

“My Ma wants to meet you,” Steve blurts out as soon as he steps inside Bucky’s house, stomach in knots.

Bucky almost steps on Strider and drops the carrot he’s holding, turning around to gape at Steve. “What?” he asks, voice pitched high.

Steve would make fun of him if he didn’t feel like throwing up. He would also laugh at the way Strider catches the carrot and runs past Bucky and out of the house, much like Steve wants to do right about now.

“My Ma wants to meet you,” he repeats, and at the way Bucky’s eyes almost bug out of his face he quickly adds, “It can be a private dinner, just us and a few placed guards. I know you don’t like a crowd, so I thought maybe this could be easier...”

“Steve.” Bucky walks up to him, grabbing Steve’s hands and lacing their fingers together. Steve snaps his mouth shut and stares down, dazed.

“Bucky?”

Bucky lets out a slow breath, licking his lips. “It’s not that I don’t like crowds,” he starts, wincing a little. “It’s the million questions that come with it that are a problem.”

“Oh.” Steve blinks. “So you don’t… you don’t mind attention? Just people invading your privacy.”

“There are some things I wish to keep to myself,” Bucky tells him. “And it’s easier to do that when I’m not around a lot of people.”

That explains a lot, Steve thinks. “But if you were to be,” he tries, “around people?”

Bucky purses his lips, considering. “Can I tell them to shut up?”

“With the authority vested in me by being Crown Prince Steven Grant, I hereby grant you permission to tell anyone to shut up whenever you wish them to shut up, myself included,” Steve informs him. “I can even make a document and sign it, if you want.”

Bucky stares at him, open-mouthed, before the most wonderful things happens: Bucky throws his head back and bursts out laughing. Steve’s own lips part as he watches him, squeezing Bucky’s hands so tight with his own he’s surprised Bucky doesn’t pull away.

“Yes,” Bucky says between laughs, sway a little in place.

“Yes what?” Steve asks, having forgotten anything and everything that isn’t Bucky laughing.

“I’ll meet your Mother,” Bucky answers, grinning. “In a private dinner. As long as I get to pass any questions I don’t want to give the answer to. And Strider gets to come with.”

It’s Steve’s turn to smile, slow and big. “I think that can be arranged,” he says. “You did save my life, after all.”


	12. Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

“I made a mistake,” Bucky says and Strider whines, walking up to Bucky and putting his head on Bucky’s knees. “A huge mistake.”

Bucky can’t believe he agreed to meet Steve’s mother, the _Queen_. Nothing about it sounds like a good idea, never mind that Steve’s said he doesn’t have to answer any questions that he doesn't want to.

This is the _Queen_. People can’t say no to the _Queen_.

So Bucky is panicking a little, cold slithering down his spine as the day he’s supposed to have dinner with the _Queen_ draws near.

Strider always notices his agitation, sticking close to him when they have to venture into town and practically living on top of Bucky when they are at home. Bucky’s never been more thankful for him, threading his fingers through Strider’s fur and burying his face against his back whenever he’s feeling a little overwhelmed.

Right now, Strider is licking his face, wet tongue cold against Bucky’s chin and cheek. Bucky tries to focus on that and the horrid smell of Strider’s breath instead of his own fear, doing his best to ground himself in the present and not spiral into a pit of despair.

“Why did I ever agree to this?” Bucky asks himself out loud, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

He knows the reason why. He’s found himself helpless against Steve’s eager and hopeful looks, that happen to be worse than Strider’s puppy dog eyes. It doesn’t help that Steve is so willing to accommodate Bucky’s horror of people asking questions and prying into his life.

And there’s also the fact that Bucky is _maybe_ a little in love with Steve.

“I was doomed from the start, wasn’t I?” Bucky sighs, resting his cheek against Strider’s head.

He takes the way Strider huffs and presses closer as agreement.

 

**

 

“What do you wear to meet the Queen?” Bucky asks, bracing himself.

Lady Martinelli twirls around so fast that she bumps her hip against one of the pans, sending it crashing to the floor. Bucky flinches at the loud noise, hands curling into fists at his side.

“You’re meeting the Queen?” Lady Martinelli gasps, ignoring the pan and pulling up a chair so she can sit beside Bucky. Her eyes are wide and her lips are parted, and Bucky doesn’t even try to stop her when she reaches out a hand and clutches at his right arm. “You’re meeting Steve’s _mom_?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, wishing he could take back his question now.

Lady Martinelli squeaks, letting go of Bucky’s arm so she can clap her hands. “Oh my god!”

“Lady Martin—”

“Oh my _god_!” she interrupts up, abruptly sitting up and almost tipping her chair backwards. “I need to tell Peggy.”

“Lady—,” Bucky tries again, but can barely get a word out before she is off, a huge smile gracing her features.

Bucky sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’s made his bed, so he might as well lie in it.

About five minutes later Lady Martinelli returns, Lady Carter following behind. Bucky wipes his hands on his pants, straightening in his seat and looking up at them, knots forming in his stomach. They don’t say anything, just stare back at him, smiling.

At least until Lady Carter says, “Steve’s invited you to meet his mother.”

“Yes.”

“And you want help picking something to wear.”

“Yes?” Bucky says, tentative. He’s dressed for kings before, but always for battle. The concept of wearing something acceptable for dinner seems foreign to him, especially when it is dinner with the mother of the man he’s a little in love with.

Impossibly, Lady Martinelli and Lady Carter’s smiles widen, and suddenly Bucky feels very afraid.

“Mr. Barnes,” Lady Carter walks up to him and extends a hand, “it’d be my pleasure to help you.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says, both relieved and worried, catching her hand in his and pressing a light kiss to the back of her hand. “I’ll be in your debt, Lady Carter.”

“None of that,” she says, squeezing his hand once before letting it go. “There are no debts between friends. And please, call me Peggy.”

A spark of surprise shoots through Bucky. “Friends?”

It is Lady Martinelli who answers, coming up to stand beside her wife. “Yes, friends,” she says, kicking the tip of Bucky’s boot with her own. “You can still call me Lady, though. It makes me feel important.”

And Bucky, despite himself, laughs.

 

**

 

Bucky tugs at his collar as he prepares to leave for dinner, feeling stiff and awkward in the clothes Peggy and Angie picked for him.

The pants are tight, hugging his thighs and calves and other parts Bucky would rather not think about but that, according to Angie, makes him look very striking. The white plain shirt is much the same, laces done up, fabric stretching across his shoulders and back. Too bad it is mostly hidden under a vest, and over that Bucky is wearing a fitted burgundy coat with silver details on the collar and chest.

“Do I look stupid?” Bucky asks Strider, who turns around and pointedly ignores Bucky, just as he’s been doing since Bucky forced him into a bath. “We’re meeting the Queen. We need to look good.”

Bucky has even combed his hair and tied it at the back of his head with a ribbon. He put his foot down on getting a shave, knowing the skin covered by stubble would look pale and pink instead of the healthy tan he has everywhere else.

Bucky is startled out of his thoughts when there’s a knock on his door. He takes a deep breath, smoothing down nonexistent wrinkles from his clothes, and then opens the door.

“Mr. Barnes,” Dame Chavez greets him. “Are you ready to go?”

Bucky looks past her shoulder to the carriage waiting for him. “We’re going in _that_?”

“His Highness wanted you to be comfortable,” she explains, lips quirking up. “He also said he had no idea how your dog was supposed to come with if you were riding on a horse.”

Bucky opens and closes his mouth, not knowing what to say but feeling oddly touched. “Okay, just give me a minute.”

Dame Chavez tilts her chin in acknowledgement. “As long as you need.”

Bucky goes back inside again, taking a few moments to himself.

He’s really doing this. He’s really going to go meet the Queen. Today. In a matter of less than an hour.

If Bucky is being honest with himself, he figured something like this would happen if the Prince remembered where he was going when he was attacked in the woods. Bucky never really thought he’d get away with saving the Prince’s life without the Queen taking an interest in him. He’s a little surprise it’s taken her this long, but he has his suspicious that Steve has had something to do with that.

The thought sends warmth rushing through his body, his heart skipping a beat. He’s scared of this, yes, but Steve will be there. He thinks he can face what is to come as long as he has Steve by his side.

So Bucky squares his shoulders, calls Strider to him, and goes.

 

**

 

Steve promised him privacy, and that is what Bucky gets.

There are no curious stares as he’s ushered to the Palace, no crowds waiting to catch a glimpse of him, no people whispering as he walks through the hallways with Strider and a few guards. Bucky appreciates the effort, but it does little to rid him of his anxiety, especially when there is no sight of Steve anywhere.

Dame Chavez notices him fidgeting with his clothing, as well as the way Strider presses closes to his side. She raises an eyebrow at him, her way of asking him what’s wrong.

“Steve?” is all Bucky can bring himself to say.

“Where do you think we’re taking you?” she answers, giving him a smirk.

Bucky breathes out, the tension draining from his muscles. “Yeah?”

Dame Chavez doesn’t answer, just stops at a door to their right and opens it, gesturing for Bucky to step inside.

“Thanks,” Bucky tells her as he walks forward, Strider trailing behind.

Bucky doesn’t realize where he is until he sees the huge bed by the window.

Steve’s bedroom is as big as Bucky’s entire house, looking warm and cozy and lived in. The curtains by the windows are pulled back, letting the last of the afternoon sun inside. The bed is covered by silk sheets and a mountain of pillows, the nightstands on each side a mess of different books and letters. The table by the window looks much the same, although this one has drawing paper spread all over it, as well as used brushes and small bottles of ink organized in a neat row at the window sill.

Bucky stands in the middle of the room, jaw slack, having no idea what to do, until Steve steps out of a door to his left. He is wearing something similar to Bucky, by which Bucky means he now understands why Angie was so appreciative of him in pants that actually fit him. Instead of a vest and coat, though, Steve is only wearing the later, the blue color and details along the sleeves bringing out his eyes.

“Bucky!” Steve positively lights up, rushing up to him. He stops short of giving Bucky a hug, which Bucky appreciates but thinks is unnecessary.

A hug sounds like something he needs right about now.

So Bucky opens his arms, letting Steve pull him close and hold him tight.

Bucky finds himself relaxing into Steve’s arms, knowing that there he is safe from harm. “Hi,” he mumbles against Steve’s neck, letting Steve’s scent and warmth wash over him.

“Hey,” Steve says back, lips brushing against the shell of Bucky’s ear, making him shiver. Steve just hugs him tighter, neither of them eager to let go any time soon.

And they don’t, just pulling back far enough so they can stare at each other, not letting go.

“Hi,” Bucky repeats, just because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Steve doesn’t seem to have that problem, although he does flush bright pink when he says, “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Bucky murmurs, heart in his throat. He can’t remember the last time someone called him that, but the pain in his chest makes him think it was his mother. Bucky guesses he’ll have a lot to thank Peggy and Angie for, after tonight. “You, as well.”

Steve smiles at him, cheeks still red, matching the color of his lips. “Thank you.”

They’re both distracted by Strider, who barks and runs off from Bucky’s side. They glance at him just in time to see Strider jumping on Steve’s bed, knocking half of the pillows to the floor as he rolls around in the silk sheets.

“Strider!” Bucky yells, letting go of Steve and going after his dog. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Strider barks, worming his way under the sheets and about five different pillows, only his wagging tail peeking out.

“Leave him,” Steve says, wrapping his fingers around Bucky’s wrist and pulling him back. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Bucky argues, glaring at Strider. “He’s supposed to have better manners than that.”

Steve laughs, throwing an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Aren’t you the one who lets him sleep on your bed? He just thinks the same rules apply here.”

Bucky’s stomach flips at that, and he finds himself leaning against Steve’s side. “Do they?”

Steve looks at him, their faces so close Bucky can count his eyelashes. “Yeah,” he says softly, cheeks dusting pink.

Someone knocks on the door, making Bucky jump at the sound and Strider jump out from under the pillows. Steve’s arm tightens around him before he steps away, hand trailing down Bucky’s back.

“Yes?” Steve asks, going to the door.

“It is time, Your Highness.”

“Thank you, America, we’ll be right out.” Steve turns to him, smile fond. “You ready?”

Bucky looks at him, taking in Steve’s soft expression, the impression of Steve’s arms wrapped around him still fresh on his mind.

“Yes,” Bucky says, taking a step forward to meet him. “I’m ready.”

As ready as he’ll ever be.

 

**

 

It is a relief, when they arrive for dinner, to find no one but themselves in the room. It means Bucky has a few minutes more alone with Steve before the Queen arrives, while Strider pads across the place and sniffs everything he can, which Bucky uses to thank Steve for all of this.

“You’re important,” Steve answers, echoing words once said, smiling a little. “I want you to be comfortable here.”

Bucky thinks he could be, given time. And if Steve was right there beside him. But there is the little problem of what he can do, and the secrets he keeps.

Still, Bucky is struck again by how good Steve is, how much he cares. Steve has shown it again and again since they have met, and Bucky wonders if one day he’ll stop being surprised at Steve’s attention. A part of him hopes so, because then it means he will be used to feeling like he deserves that kind of sentiment.

They are staring at each other, so caught up in their own little word that neither of them hear another person come in.

At least not until they say, “Ah, there you are.”

Bucky snaps around so fast he almost loses his balance, Steve’s palm against his hip helping him stay upright. The Queen is staring at him, eyebrows raised, an amused smile playing on her lips.

“Your Majesty,” Bucky gathers himself, bowing to her, and ignoring Steve’s protests that he doesn’t need to do so.

“Rise,” she says, coming closer, her gown dragging along the floor. Bucky does, nerves making him sweat a little. It doesn’t help that the Queen just stares at him, considering.

“Ma,” Steve hisses, and Bucky glances at him from the corner of his eyes, his own lips betraying his mirth and curving up when he notices the bright red color of Steve’s cheeks.

His attention is soon brought back to the Queen, though, when she utters twelve little words that steal the breath from Bucky’s lungs and almost bring him to his knees yet again.

“So you are the man my son has given his heart to.”

 

**

 

Bucky feels himself floating.

There’s no other way to describe it. It is like he is not of his own body, mind blank as he stares at his Queen, trying to process what she has just said. When he finds that he can’t, he turns to Steve for translation, only to be faced with Steve’s now pale face, his wide eyes filled with panic.

It snaps Bucky back into himself, seeing fear plain on Steve’s face, his own shock trading places with worry. “Steve?”

“I—,” Steve stutters, looking from Bucky to his mother and back again. “I’m—”

Bucky lets out a harsh breath, grabbing Steve by the collar of his shirt. He doesn’t bother looking back to the Queen as he drags Steve away and out of the door, past his guards, and through one of the doors they’ve passed on the way.

He ignores the outraged gasps of the Palace guards, which Bucky knows don’t come after them because Steve probably gestures them to stay put. He ignores his own horror at having been so rude to the Queen, and his guilt at leaving Strider alone with the woman.

Right now, though, his priority is making sure Steve feels safe again. All so they can talk about what the Queen said and what it means. And to him safety equals running someplace away from what scares him so.

Bucky closes the door with a thud and pushes Steve up against it, barely registering they are in some kind of library. His hands are on Steve’s shoulder, keeping him in place. Steve stares at him, mouth parted and eyes dark, color now back on his cheeks.

“You okay?” Bucky asks him, also ignoring the traitorous beat of his own heart, hammering in his chest.

“Yes,” Steve gasps, sounding a little strangled and not at all like he is okay.

“ _Steve_.”

“I’m fine,” Steve replies, clearing his throat. “I’m okay, really.”

“Are you sure?” Bucky narrows his eyes.

Steve makes a face at him, annoyed, which is all of the answer Bucky needs. “I said I’m fine.”

“Okay, good,” Bucky says, and then takes one of his hands off Steve’s shoulder and flicks him on the forehead. “What the hell was that?”

“Hey!” Steve protests, rubbing at his forehead.

“What did she mean by that?” Bucky asks and takes a step backward, stomach churning.

“Buck,” Steve says, reaching out a hand.

Bucky looks at it but doesn’t take it, ignoring the way it makes hurt flash through Steve’s eyes.

“Is it true?” Bucky croaks out, licking his lips.

Steve stares at him, hands curled into fists by his side, jaw clenched. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

Bucky’s heart about trips out of his own chest and into Steve’s own hands. His skin feels hot, ears buzzing, words silent on his tongue. He is suspended in time, held together by the sound of Steve’s voice and the words coming out past his lips.

“I fell in love with you, Bucky,” Steve says, each word torn out of him. “I fell in love with you to my complete lack of surprise,” he laughs, a choked up little sound that stabs Bucky right in the chest. “I had every intention to formally ask you to be courted and, if you accepted, to ask you become the Prince Consort. But in our own time. Because I want you by my side, now and always.”

Bucky trembles, thoughts racing, hope and joy and fear rushing through him, making him lightheaded and overwhelmed.

“I’m not a good person,” Bucky says, because out of all of it, that is what rings out.

He is not a good person.

He is in love with Steve, but he is not deserving of the love Steve feels for him. He’s done too much, caused too much death and pain and destruction. He is not meant to have something good, as good as this, no matter how much he wishes to hold on to it.

And when those thoughts scream so loud in his head, they quiet down when Steve touches him, his hand so warm on the back of Bucky’s neck, thumb pressing on his pulse point.

“You _are_ ,” Steve tells him, righteous and beautiful and all that Bucky loves. “You saved me. You helped me and looked after me when you didn’t have to.”

“Of course I had to,” Bucky tries to argue, but is silenced by Steve tightening his grip on him.

“Not when you knew the trouble it’d bring you,” Steve replies, shaking his head. “Not when it’d cost you something you didn’t want to give.”

Bucky’s breath hitches, hands coming up to rest over Steve’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his clothes. “I tried to get trouble to leave me alone,” he jokes, choked up, “but you wouldn’t listen.”

Steve bites down on his bottom lip, ducking his head. Bucky can still see the sadness in him, though, on the downward curl of his lips.

“You can try telling me one more time, and I promise I’ll listen and leave.”

“Steve,” Bucky whispers, heart shattering into a million pieces.

“I’d still like us to be friends,” Steve tells him, glancing up at Bucky from under wet lashes. “If you say no to me courting you. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You don’t know me.” Bucky shakes his head. “Not really.”

“I don’t know all of you, but I know _you_ ,” Steve says, with all the certainty he can muster. “And the parts that I don’t know, I’ll like to learn them. Whether it be as your friend or… or as your lover.”

Steve blushes a little at the last word. He looks so eager, so hopeful, that it makes Bucky close his eyes unable to look at him.

“You’re a punk,” Bucky mutters, resting their foreheads together.

“Takes one to know one,” Steve whispers through a smile, his hands sliding down so he can rest them on Bucky’s hip. “Can I…”

“Are you sure you want to?” Bucky leans back a little. “Are you sure you want…”

“There’s no one else. Not on this earth. Not for me.” Steve pulls Bucky closer, but he sounds unsure when he asks, “What about you? Do you want this?”

The truth of it is: Bucky never wanted this.

Never, in his wildest dreams, did he think of having something like this for himself.

But Bucky _wished_. And now that he has it? He’s not going to let go.

So he closes the distance between them and says, right against Steve’s lips, “ _Yes_.”

And when Steve kisses him, sweet and slow and all consuming, there are sparks.


	13. Bucky

“Woah.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, nuzzling his nose against Steve’s.

They have their arms wrapped around each other, bodies flush together, barely any space between them at all. Bucky’s lips are tingling in the most pleasant way, after being so thoroughly kissed, and he can’t help but lick them, chasing the taste of Steve.

Steve’s eyes drop to his mouth, following the movement. “Can I kiss you again?”

Bucky laughs, bumping their foreheads together. “You don’t have to ask every time.”

“Can I?” Steve asks anyway, and Bucky rolls his eyes at him and pulls him into another kiss.

This one is slower than the first one, not as desperate. It is more for them to enjoy instead of a form of reassurance, both of them now knowing where they stand. Bucky cups Steve’s face between his hands, angling his head so he can deepen the kiss, letting out a low moan when Steve’s lips part for him.

They kiss until they’re breathless with it, lips red and swollen, their cheeks pink and their hairs a mess. Bucky’s lost his ribbon somewhere, hair now falling to his shoulders, one of Steve’s hands tangle through it.

“We should go,” Bucky says, thumb tracing Steve’s bottom lip, wanting nothing more than to stay here forever.

“Don’t wanna,” Steve murmurs, pressing butterfly kisses to the corner of Bucky’s mouth, his chin, his jaw.

Bucky laughs again, and then takes a moment to marvel at how easy that comes to him now, after years of not even small smiles.

“In case you’ve forgotten, we left your mother, the _Queen_ , alone in the middle of dinner,” Bucky reminds him, body tensing with apprehension despite himself. “With my dog.”

Steve hugs him closer, tucking his head against the side of Bucky’s neck, breathing him in. “She’ll understand. And I’m sure Strider is having a great time.”

“Will she?” Bucky doubts, because there is no denying how rude he was to her. “And Strider probably tried to steal some food already.”

Steve kisses Bucky’s neck and pulls back, grinning. “She will when she sees how happy I am.”

“How debauched you look, you mean,” Bucky corrects him, and then it’s his turn to grin when Steve flushes bright red.

“Well, you don’t look any better,” Steve snarks, tugging at Bucky’s hair for emphasis.

“And after all the hard work of tying it with a ribbon,” Bucky sighs. “Time wasted.”

“You looked beautiful,” Steve says, pecking Bucky on the lips. “But you look even more so now.”

Bucky presses closer to Steve, feeling shy, lowering his head so it rests on Steve’s shoulder and away from his loving eyes. “You’re a sap.”

“I’m in love,” Steve sing-songs, arm tightening around Bucky. “I’m allowed to be.”

Bucky smiles at that, lifting his head up so he catch Steve’s lips with his in a chaste kiss. “Let’s go back. I want to meet your mother properly and apologize for my rudeness.”

With one last kiss, they step outside, Steve’s warm hand in his, their fingers intertwined.

The guards posted outside stand at attention when they see Steve, as if ready to throw Bucky out if Steve wants him to. All Steve does, though, is tug him closer and bringing Bucky’s hand up to his lips, dropping a kiss to his knuckles. It makes Bucky smile, and when he catches sight of Steve’s guard posted just a few steps ahead, he sees them smiling as well.

Queen Sarah is seated at the table when they arrive, with, to Bucky’s surprise, Strider’s head on her lap. They both look up when the door closes behind Bucky and Steve, but when the Queen only smiles, Strider leaves her and rushes up to Bucky.

“Sorry, buddy.” Bucky kneels to pet him, uncaring of his new pants. “I hope you weren’t trouble.”

“He was a gentleman,” the Queen says, looking from Bucky to Steve, her smile widening. “Are you ready to eat now?”

“Yes, Ma,” Steve says, placing a hand on the small of Bucky’s back when Bucky gets up and leading him to the table, Strider following along and sitting by Bucky’s feet.

“Your Majesty, I’m sorry about—,” Bucky starts to say.

“Nonsense.” Queen Sarah waves a hand at him. “You have nothing to apologize for. Not when everything obviously turned out just fine.”

Bucky glances at Steve at that, already finding him staring back. They both smile at each other, big and bright and full of joy.

“Yes,” Steve says, laying a hand on Bucky’s knee under the table. “Everything is great.”

Queen Sarah picks up her cup and raises it, a knowing and pleased look on her face.

Dinner after that goes surprisingly well, all things considered. Even when Queen Sarah starts asking him questions, gaze steady as she stares at him across the table.

“Mr. Barnes, tell me something.”

Bucky sets down his fork, tensing a little. It’s only Steve’s hand, still on his knee, and Strider pressed to his side that keeps Bucky calm. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

He is still expecting the worst, though. For her to question his intentions, to ask prying questions, to inquire about his life to determine if he’s worthy of her son. So he is floored when she leans over, eyes on Strider, with a curious smile on her face.

“What kind of dog is that? He is very well behaved.”

Bucky is so caught off guard he chokes on a laugh, startling the Queen. “Sorry, Your Majesty, but he is not well behaved at all.”

“Oh?” Queen Sarah tilts her head to the side. “But he was perfectly fine when you left with Steve. He didn’t even bark.”

Bucky appreciates her not pointing out that he _dragged_ Steve out of the room. And the Queen’s assessment of Strider is so different from what Bucky is used to from him that he can’t help but look down at his dog, eyebrows raised.

“Is that so?” Bucky muses, scratching Strider under the chin. “So you _can_ behave. Just not with me, apparently.”

Strider pants, tongue sticking out, happily tilting his head back for more scratches.

“If you stuck to your own rules, maybe he would,” Steve pipes up, and then grins when Bucky pokes him in the ribs.

“I don’t want any lip from you.”

“Don’t you?” Steve asks, smirking at him. Only to stop and blush when the Queen clears her throat, pointedly looking away from them. “Sorry, Ma.”

“Oh, please don’t apologize,” she says, and then winks. “I was a lot worse than that with your father.”

Bucky hides a smile behind his cup. He thinks he likes Steve’s mother, or at least the way she’s not afraid to embarrass both of them. It makes him miss his own Ma, though, grief spreading through him like an old friend.

“You okay?” Steve whispers, leaning into Bucky’s space, thumb rubbing circles on Steve’s thigh.

Bucky rests his hand over Steve’s, tangling their fingers together. “I think… I think I will be.”

Steve smiles at him, soft and fond. “Good.”

“Mr. Barnes,” Queen Sarah starts again.

“You may call me Bucky, Your Majesty,” Bucky tells her. “Or James.”

“James,” Queen Sarah says, nodding at him, “I’ve heard you grow the most delicious tomatoes in the kingdom.”

Bucky opens his mouth that tell her that is too much of an exaggeration, but Steve beats him to it. By saying the exact opposite.

“He does, Ma,” Steve answers, preening. “You should see them. You should see his gardens and the work he puts into them. He’s always checking to make sure everything is okay and he only buys the best—”

“Steven,” the Queen interrupts him. “I’ve heard all of this from you before. Now I’d like to hear it from James.”

Steve ducks his head and flushes from the tips of his ears down to his chest, pale skin turning pink so quickly Bucky wants to put his mouth on him. He refrains, seeing as they are not alone, but makes a promise to himself to try his best to get Steve to blush like that again.

Bucky finds himself telling the Queen about his business while they eat. He answers her questions, which don’t stray into dangerous territory, keeping a steady thread of conversation throughout dinner. He has no idea if Steve’s told her not to ask questions about his past, if she already knows, or if she doesn’t care, but he’s grateful just the same.

It is surreal to Bucky that he is sharing a table with Queen Sarah, if only because she keeps smiling at him and Steve, her eyes glinting. Bucky knows he doesn’t look any better, cheeks already hurting from smiling so much, but he can’t help himself. Steve is much the same way, grin having never left his face after the moment he and Bucky kissed.

Bucky can’t help but send glances at Steve throughout dinner, in between sneaking food to Strider, heart clenching in his chest whenever their eyes meet. It is sweet torture to keep himself from closing the distance between them and catch Steve’s lips in a kiss, especially now that he knows what they feel like, but Bucky manages to control himself.

At least until dinner is over.

 

**

 

“James, it was a pleasure,” Queen Sarah says, giving her hand to Bucky. “We’ll do this again sometime.”

Bucky takes her hand and kisses the back of it. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Steve,” Queen Sarah cups Steve’s face between her hands, kisses his forehead, and then leans in to whisper him something.

“Ma!” Steve hisses, cheeks red, eyes darting to where Bucky is standing.

Queen Sarah pulls back, small smile in place. “Night, boys.”

“What did she say?” Bucky asks Steve once Sarah is gone, both of them making their way back to Steve’s ala of the Palace.

“Nothing,” Steve grumbles. “She thinks she’s funny, but she isn’t.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at Steve but doesn’t ask. Both of them have the right to keep secrets if they wish to.

“Are you staying?” Steve asks him, worrying at his bottom lip.

In truth, he does not wish to leave. The ride back to his home is a long one, and he would have to leave soon if he were to make it safely. Spending more time with Steve wins over that any time.

“Is there room for me?” Bucky teases, snaking an arm around Steve’s waist.

“You can have your pick of rooms,” Steve tells him. “So can Strider, if he wants a bed all to himself.”

Strider looks up at the sound of his name, barking once.

“He stays close to me,” Bucky mutters, because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep somewhere new without Strider by his side.

“Of course.” Steve kisses Bucky’s temple. “And I have the perfect room, if you want to stay close to me.”

“Show me.”

To Bucky’s relief, Steve doesn’t lead them to _his_ room, but to one across the hallway. It is set up much the same way as Steve’s, albeit smaller, with just as many pillows on the bed. Pillows that Strider doesn’t hesitate to jump on when Steve opens the door.

“We have a winner,” Bucky deadpans.

Steve laughs, leaning against the doorframe and pulling Bucky to him by the waist. “Hi.”

“Hey, yourself,” Bucky murmurs, surrendering and finally kissing Steve breathless.

Steve makes a soft little sound in the back of his throat and crushes Bucky to him, tongue licking into Bucky’s mouth, kissing him deep. Bucky loses himself in it, the feeling of Steve’s arms around him and lips moving against his. It’s heady, being this close to Steve, after wanting him for so long.

And Bucky wishes to stay like this forever.

Or he does, until someone loudly clears their throat.

Bucky and Steve break apart with a slick sound and turn around, and Bucky does _not_ pout a little at them being interrupted. When they look to the hallway, Steve’s guard is resolutely _not_ staring at either of them, although Bucky can tell by the grins at least half of them have that they are amused by the display.

“I should say good night,” Steve tells him, voice rough. His lips are shiny, eyes dark, cheeks flushed and hair a mess.

Bucky leans in and kisses him again, deep and as sweet as he can make it. “Good night.”

Steve huffs, nipping at Bucky’s bottom lip. “Want to go on a walk with me tomorrow? There’s something I want to show you.”

“Will there be more of this?” Bucky kisses Steve again, making a point.

“Yes.” Steve laughs and kisses him back, their teeth clinking together because they’re smiling so wide.

 

**

 

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah?” Steve grins at him, smug.

Bucky nods, eyes sweeping over the expense of the Royal Garden, colors impossibly bright under the morning sun, the sweet smell of flowers permeating the air. It is beautiful here, the place brimming with life, even when he and Steve are the only ones there. He is suddenly glad to have left Strider with one of the stable hands, playing with other dogs.

“Shall we?” Steve gives him his arm, placing his hand over Bucky’s when Bucky’s fingers curl around his bicep.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Steve wrinkles his nose at the title, but stops looking bothered when Bucky leans in and kisses the tip of his nose. Then he just smiles, shy and pleased.

They don’t say much as they walk, content to let a comfortable silence rest between them. Steve does listen to Bucky babble about moth orchids and passion flowers and flame lilies, though, stopping his mid-sentence with kisses whenever he likes, not that Bucky complains.

“I like this,” Bucky says once they sit down on a bench near the roses, one of his arms around Steve’s shoulder, holding him close.

“I should hope so,” Steve answers, nudging Bucky’s cheek with his nose. “There will be a lot more of it in our future, while I court you.”

Bucky’s stomach flips. “What does that entail? Courting?”

“Lots of this,” Steve says, gesturing between them, “and this,” he adds, kissing Bucky on the lips, “and gifts.”

“Sounds nice,” Bucky murmurs, smiling against Steve’s forehead. “What kind of gifts?”

Steve snorts, pulling back to look at Bucky. “Of course you’d focus on that.”

Bucky kisses Steve on the mouth, light and quick. “What kind?”

“All kinds,” Steve explains. “As long as they’re meaningful to you, to us.”

Bucky stops at that, mind going over the last few months of his life. “Steve,” he starts slowly, blinking owlishly, “do you mean like all of the gifts you’ve given me before?”

It’s Steve’s turn to freeze at that, shoulders tense under Bucky’s arm. His eyes widen, pink lips shaping the perfect ‘o’ of surprise.

“Oh my god,” Bucky gasps, and laughs despite himself. “Were you courting me _before_?”

Steve snaps his mouth shut, cheeks beautiful pink. “I— I didn’t realize—”

Bucky, still laughing, grabs Steve’s face and smacks a kiss on his lips. “Dumbass.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, looking both terribly embarrassed and happy.

“Absolute idiot.” Bucky shakes his head at Steve. “How could you not _realize_?”

Steve shrugs one shoulder, fingers wrapping around Bucky’s wrists as he leans into Bucky’s touch. “I didn’t think about it,” he says. “It just felt like… like something I should do. As if it was meant to be.”

“This isn’t a fairy tale, Steve,” Bucky says softly.

Steve raises an eyebrow at him. “Isn’t it?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just kisses Steve again, pouring all of his love into it. “I kept them, you know?”

“What?” Steve asks, a little dazed.

“Your gifts,” Bucky replies. “I kept all of them.”

“Bucky.”

“I did.” Bucky nuzzles his nose against Steve’s. “Even that stupid ball you got for Strider. It’s somewhere under my bed. He never lets me go near it.”

Steve laughs, and the sound brings a smile to Bucky’s lips.

“I guess I’ll have to give you something that’s yours to keep, huh?” Steve says, kissing Bucky on the cheek once before he gets up.

Bucky watches, delighted, as Steve walks to the roses and picks one, red and blooming and filled with thorns. He brings it to Bucky, kneeling before him, and offers him the gift.

“A rose for my love,” Steve says, as cheesy as he can be, making Bucky laugh.

Laughter that quickly dies when he sees the blood running down Steve’s thumb, a small cut on his skin from cut prickled by a thorn.

Bucky doesn’t think twice before he throws the rose on the floor and holds Steve’s hand between his own, blood staining his fingers. He doesn’t think when he taps into that place inside himself, finds that little spark of magic he’s kept so well hidden as these years. He doesn’t think as he heals Steve’s small injuries, their skins glowing as the cuts close.

Bucky doesn’t think and uses his magic in front of Steve.

“Bucky,” Steve whispers reverently, awe in his face.

Not that Bucky notices. Not when cold seeps into him, horror and fear and dread swirling in his stomach, consuming his every thought.

He used his magic _in front of Steve_.

“No,” Bucky says, dropping Steve’s hand as if he’s been burnt, entire body shaking. “No.”

“Bucky—,” Steve tries to touch him, awe being replaced by fear.

And that is not something Bucky can deal with. He cannot handle Steve being afraid of him.

So with his heart breaking in his chest, Bucky does what he does best: he runs.


	14. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings** for this chapter: mentions of minor character deaths, mentions of past torture. **details at the end!**

When Steve sees the bright glow on his finger, feels the warmth of it spreading through his skin, the small cut he has knitting itself back together, all he can think is: _oh_.

Oh, this is how it happens.

Oh, this is how Bucky healed him, once before.

And _oh_ , how amazing is the man he’s fallen in love with.

That kind of awe and happiness and light rush through him, only to be yanked away when Bucky pales, his eyes haunted, and runs. He leaves Steve there on his knees, the rose he picked crushed on the ground, thorns bloody.

The shock of it, both of the realization of what Bucky can do and him leaving, paralyze Steve. He can’t seem to get himself to move, to get up, to run after Bucky. He can’t open his mouth and find his voice, to send his guards running after Bucky, to stop him from going. All he can do is think, thoughts running in circles on side of his head.

_Oh_ , so this is it.

 

**

 

Time doesn’t exist for Steve.

It passes by both too fast and way too slow, as he gets up in a daze and runs out of the garden and to the castle. He ignores the questions thrown his way, the apprehensive looks, the wishes for him to slow down.

Steve can’t slow down.

Bucky _ran_ , and now Steve is going to run after him.

Oh, but he _is_.

 

**

 

Finding Bucky doesn’t pose a problem. Steve has gotten to know him these past months, has spent countless hours by his side, so it doesn’t take him long to figure out where Bucky is.

When Bucky runs, he runs to feel safe, and there is one place in all the kingdom where that still holds true.

The forest road is illuminated as Steve makes his way back to Bucky, its silence greeting Steve in a familiar way. The trees cast shadows down the path, leaves ruffling when Samson gallops past them.

Steve’s heart is a lump in his throat, almost beating out of his chest when he arrives. He can hear Strider barking inside the house, which alarms him and brings him relief.

Bucky is still here. Scared, maybe, but here.

Steve dismounts and rushes to the house, anger and fear and determination and _love_ guiding his steps. He can hear chairs scraping on the floor and cabinet doors being slammed shut and things falling with heavy thuds.

Bucky is still here, but it seems he doesn’t plan to stay for long.

“No,” Steve says to himself, hands curling into fists. “ _No_.”

He doesn’t barge into Bucky’s house. He wants to, but he knows it will not help. Now that he knows what Bucky can do, knows the secret Bucky has kept, a lot of things start making sense. Bucky’s strict boundaries being one of them.

Steve takes a deep breath, brings his hand up, and knocks on the door.

All sounds stop.

Steve’s heart might as well stop with it.

Until Bucky opens the door, face pale and hair a mess, hands shaking at his sides, fear written on the tight lines around his eyes and mouth. He’s not looking at Steve. Instead, his eyes case beyond him, as if looking for a threat that isn’t there.

“It’s just me,” Steve says, voice cracking, even though he knows it won’t be for long. His guard is bound to follow and find them both here eventually.

Bucky’s gaze snaps to his, but he is still holding himself coiled tight and ready to strike. It is only Strider pushing past him and bumping into his legs so he can get to Steve that brings Bucky a little out of it.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, tone low and rough and filled with hurt.

“I want to talk to you.”

Bucky laughs, a harsh kind of sound that makes Steve flinch. “There’s no talking. Not about this.”

“Bucky.” Steve takes a step forward, stopping in his tracks when Bucky pulls back from him. “Please, I just want—”

“Don’t ask me,” Bucky pleads, tiny tremors running through his body. He sounds and looks small, lost, in pain, and it brings tears to Steve’s eyes. “Please, don’t ask me to do anything.”

Steve shakes his head, bile rising in his throat as he starts to get an idea of what is happening. This is what must have made Bucky keep this secret: someone made him use his magic against his will once before.

“I’m not going to,” Steve promises. “I just want—,” he takes a deep breath, gaze flickering to his own hands, still stained with blood, “I want to thank you. Again. For healing me like you did that first time.”

Bucky goes still, so still Steve thinks he’s not even breathing. He blinks once, twice, uncomprehending. “What?”

“That was how you did it, wasn’t it?” Steve looks at him, wanting nothing more than to pull Bucky into his arms. “That was how you kept me from dying. I always wondered.”

“You kne—,” Bucky tries, breathing coming faster, his chest rising and falling with each panting breath.

Strider whines, pushing against Bucky’s legs, barking.

“I didn’t,” Steve assures him. “Well, not really. I knew you’d done something, but not what.”

Bucky sways, and Steve steps forward, ready to hold Bucky up if he needs to.

“If you knew,” Bucky whispers, eyes wet, “why did you never…?”

Steve shakes his head. “It’s not my place to force you to tell me your secrets.”

“You’re the Prince,” Bucky points out, as if that’s an answer.

Steve supposes it is, if Bucky is used to different kinds of princes and kings.

“I’m a person,” Steve says, “and so are you. You’re allowed to have boundaries and not have them broken just because I’m curious.”

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky blurts out, and then immediately snaps his mouth back shut.

It makes Steve laugh, a painful little laugh, but one just the same. “So I’ve been told.”

“You’re not here to ask me to do anything,” Bucky says after a few beats of silence, one of his hands falling to Strider, fingers brushing through his fur.

“I’m not,” Steve agrees. “I’d never ask you to do something you don’t want to do.”

Bucky lets out a shaky breath, staring at Steve. “You’re not asking me to stay, either.”

“I want to,” Steve admits, heartbreak making his voice weak, “but I won’t. Not if you really want to leave.”

“You’d let me go?”

“Yes,” Steve says, his own lashes wet with tears. “And then I’d probably run after you.”

Bucky huffs, shaking his head. “You’re an idiot.”

“So you’ve said,” Steve sniffs. “And takes one to know one.”

Bucky licks his lips, eyes boring through Steve. “I should tell you about it, before we decide anything.”

“You don’t have to,” Steve protests.

“I do,” Bucky argues, “because once you know, you might be the one asking me to leave.”

 

**

 

“I was a kid when it first happened,” Bucky starts, accepting the steaming mug Steve hands him.

They’re in Bucky’s kitchen, sitting at the table, with Strider lying down on the floor between their feet. Steve is trying his best to ignore the strewn clothes all over the place, as well as the books stacked by Bucky’s bed, and the little box filled with coins by his nightstand.

“The magic thing,” Bucky explains, eyes someplace far away. “My sister and I were playing knights, and I whacked her too hard with my wooden sword and split the skin on her knuckles. My Ma and Pops came running when Becca started crying, my Ma yelling she’d hit me with the sword herself if Becca was seriously hurt. I didn’t even think before grabbing Becca’s hand and wishing for it to be all healed up.”

“And it was?” Steve asks, chest tight at hearing about Bucky’s family for the first time, at knowing he had a sister and a mother, at imagining him so young and carefree.

“Yeah.” Bucky nods, taking a sip of his drink. “Scared the crap outta all of us, too, when my hands and Becca’s knuckles started glowing. Thought my Ma was going to keel over right into the bushes.”

Steve huffs a small laugh at that, glad to see the minute twitch of Bucky’s lips at the memory. It is all layered by sadness, though, grief so deep Steve can almost taste it.

“We didn’t really keep it a secret, at least not between the four of us,” Bucky says, licking his lips. “At least not until we heard one of my Pops’s friends had their homes burned down by an invading army on their way to us to murder our King, Fury.”

“Pierce,” Steve says, anger and horror burning bright and hot inside of him.

“Pierce’s men,” Bucky corrects him, looking down at Strider when the dog gets up and rests his head on his knee. “They were killing anyone who they thought wasn’t of use to them.”

Steve’s hands curl into fists on his lap, nails digging into his skin. “Your family…”

“I still dream about them sometimes,” Bucky says quietly, detached, as if he’s not there anymore. “Their tears, their screams.”

“Bucky,” Steve chokes, reaching out a hand and resting it on top of Bucky’s on the table, heart breaking when Bucky grips it tight.

“They took me with them,” Bucky says, nothing but a whisper.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

And Bucky doesn’t.

Steve knows very well what was done to those captured by Pierce’s forces. He knows of the tortures and burnings and chains. He knows of men being forced to fight against their own people, of men being stripped of their choices, of men being sent out to die for something they didn’t believe in.

Bucky looks at him, grey-blue eyes brimming with pain and grief and death. “No, but I need to show you.”

Steve watches as Bucky lets go of his hand, places his mug on the table, and grabs the ends of his linen shirt, pulling it over his head.

“They wanted to see what I could heal from,” Bucky tells him, bared to Steve, secrets in plain sight.

Steve bites down on his tongue not to curse, blood filling his mouth. Bucky’s left arm and shoulder are a mess of scars, from knife cuts to burns, all white and healed over. They speak of the horrors Bucky has suffered, the pain he’s been through, the cruelty of his captors.

Steve has to hold himself perfectly still, taking measured breaths, pushing down the waves of rage coursing through him. “That’s why you only wear long sleeves, even when you’re working outside.”

“Don’t want people to see my sins on my skin,” Bucky says flatly, putting his shirt back on again.

“They aren’t your sins,” Steve tells him, voice cutting through the silence in the kitchen. “You didn’t have a choice. They’re the ones who made you—”

“I know what they made me, Steve,” Bucky snaps, getting up, sending Strider scrambling and his chair falling to the floor. “I still see them. The faces of everyone they forced me to torture and kill. I still have their blood on my hands.”

Steve stands up as well, forcing himself not to reach out and touch Bucky. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know,” Bucky admits brokenly, fight draining out of him. “But I still did it.”

“That’s how you knew to dispatch the man who attacked me,” Steve says, understanding dawning.

Bucky trails a hand down his left arm. “It was easy when he was also the one who gave me most of my scars.”

It paints a clear picture to Steve, both of why the man attacked him in the first place and why Bucky made sure he was dead.

“That’s why you kept it a secret, what you can do,” Steve says with understanding.

“I will never be anyone’s weapon again,” Bucky answers, eyes finding Steve’s, determination and fear in his gaze. “My choices are my own.”

Steve looks at him, at the man he loves, and the shattered pieces of his soul. Steve looks at Bucky and he loves him so _fiercely_ he wants to tear the world apart if only so he can bring Bucky some peace of mind. He knows he can’t, though. He knows there aren’t any people left to kill.

“How did you escape?” Steve asks, because he knows he would’ve met Bucky before.

He would’ve met Bucky when he and Natasha helped King Fury take back his birthright when he cut off Pierce’s head.

“I crawled under a pile of bodies and pretended to be dead,” Bucky says without infliction. “All men look the same when they’re covered in blood and mud and shit. It wasn’t hard. Not when I was that desperate.”

Steve closes his eyes, a shudder running through him at the thought. “Why didn’t you go home, after the war was over?”

Bucky shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “To what? A burning pile of ashes and my family's bones? That wasn’t home, Steve. Until I got here, nothing felt like home.”

Steve gulps, stomach in knots, and glances around the mess of Bucky’s house. “And you want to leave again.”

“I don’t _want_ to,” Bucky tells him, face tight with pain. “But I will if I have to.”

Steve knows that is true. He knows Bucky will disappear if he thinks he’s going to be used again.

“I don’t want you to go,” is all Steve can say, because while he knows he would never force Bucky to do anything, he knows other people might not feel the same. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“No?” Bucky asks with a dry laugh. “Not even after all of this? After knowing what I’ve done?”

“You’re not the only killer standing in this room,” Steve answers, voice hard. “So no, I don’t want you to go. And I’ll fight anyone who tries to take your choices away from you again.”

“Anyone?” Bucky raises an eyebrow at him.

“ _Anyone_ ,” Steve promises. “You’ll never have to feel like a prisoner again. Not if I have any say about it.”

Bucky blinks at him. “You’re an idiot.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You better come up with new insults, because you’ve said that three times today.”

“How are you real?” Bucky whispers, taking a step closer.

It twists something inside of Steve, that question. It brings up his own set of secrets he now wishes to share.

“I am made of dreams,” Steve says, standing still as Bucky rests his hands on his shoulders.

“What?” Bucky frowns at him, and then digs his fingers into Steve’s shoulders. “You feel pretty solid to me.”

“Bucky,” Steve takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, “I want to tell you something.”

 

**

 

“There’s a story,” Steve starts, both of them sitting down again, Strider between their feet, “about a kingdom at war, a very sickly young prince who wanted to fight, and a good man who made dreams come true.”

“You were the prince,” Bucky says with certainty.

Steve nods, one hand rubbing at his chest. “I was. And I wanted to fight, to help. But my lungs and heart failed me, and all I could do was sit at the council room poring over war plans.”

Bucky frowns. “That’s helping.”

“That wasn’t _enough_ ,” Steve says, indignation coursing through him. “Men were dying, people were being killed, and I was doing nothing. At least until Erskine showed up.”

“I know that name,” Bucky says quietly, peering at Steve.

“He ran from Pierce and sought asylum in our court,” Steve explains. “In the same way you can heal people, he can do something else.”

“Make dreams come true,” Bucky murmurs, eyes widening a fraction.

“Only one, and only if it is true and pure of heart,” Steve repeats the words long ago spoken to him. “He gave me an opportunity to be faster, stronger, deadly, and I took it with both hands.”

Dreams made flesh.

Steve will never forget lying on his bed, Erskine by his side, telling him to think of his dream and hold on to it. Steve will never forget the pain and the sound of his own screams as his body transformed, so different yet so familiar, as Erskine made his dream come true.

“He made me into a weapon,” Steve says, licking his lips, “but I chose to be one. I chose to fight and to kill. No one made that choice for me.”

Bucky’s breath hitches, lips parting. “That’s why you’ll never force me into doing anything I don’t want to.”

“We don’t have to fight and run anymore, Buck,” Steve murmurs. “Not if we don’t want to.”

“Do people know?” Bucky tilts his head to the side. “About you?”

“Peggy and Angie know,” Steve answers. “My Ma, and Sam. Now you.”

“It’s a secret.”

“Yes.” Steve gives him a small smile. “It’s a secret.”

“And you’ll keep mine if I ask you to,” Bucky says slowly, “even when it could help other people.”

“What you can do is not mine to share. And I would be no better than Pierce if I did, and that is not the kind of King I want to be someday.”

“You won’t be,” Bucky tells him, eyes soft. “You’ll be different. You’ll be good.”

“And hopefully I’ll have you by my side?” Steve tries, hope in every word. “Magic or not.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, lips quirking up. “You’re an idiot.”

Steve laughs, loud and bright and joyful.

He keeps laughing when Bucky gets up and plops himself down on Steve’s lap, his arms coming around Steve’s shoulders. He laughs still when Bucky brings their mouths together, the sound muffled against each other’s lips as they kiss, messy and sloppy and wonderful.

Steve only stops when Bucky pulls back, their cheeks flushed and lips swollen.

“I love you, you know,” Bucky whispers in between them, like a secret of their own.

“I love you, too,” Steve says, and pulls Bucky into another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of minor character deaths: bucky talks a little more about his dead family.
mentions of past torture: mentions of bucky being tortured with knives.



	15. Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings** for this chapter: the final chapter+ explicit sexual content!
> 
> and don't forget to check out **[dulcetine's art right here!!!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7906060)**

“You really are made of dreams,” Bucky says into Steve’s mouth, lips bitten red from kissing, his hands tangled into Steve’s hair, messing it up.

“What?” Steve laughs, distracted, hands sliding up under Bucky’s shirt.

“My dreams come true,” Bucky gasps and arches into the touch, Steve’s his palms so hot against his skin that he needs to feel more of it, _everywhere_.

Steve might be dreams made flesh, might be someone Bucky wished for but never hoped to have, but he is not really the answer to all of Bucky’s problems. They both might be made of magic, but magic does not always fix things.

Bucky knows that, has learned it the hard way. But he also knows magic can help, in the darkest of times.

So no, Steve does not hold a magical cure for all of Bucky’s fears and nightmares and guilt, but he does make them bearable. With Steve, they are not as scary and as impossible as they once were.

“I’ll always carry it with me,” Bucky says between them, forehead resting against Steve’s, their breaths mingling. “What happened, everything I was forced to do.”

Steve brushes their lips together in a chaste kiss, thumbs rubbing circles against Bucky’s hips, not holding him in place, just as a reminder that he’s there. “I know,” he says. “I’ll help you with it, if you want me to. And if not, I’m sure your nightmares can keep mine company, some nights.”

Bucky cups Steve’s cheek with one hand, heart skipping a beat when Steve turns his head, placing a kiss to Bucky’s palm. Bucky pulls him closer, wanting to wrap himself around him and never let go.

“It won’t be easy,” Bucky reminds him, lips to Steve’s brow, breathing him in.

“But it will be worth it,” Steve says into his skin, sealing the promise with a kiss to Bucky’s pulse point.

And worth it it is.

 

**

 

Bucky is weightless when Steve picks him up, his legs wrapping around Steve’s waist, arms around his neck.

“Show off,” Bucky grumbles, lips twitching when Steve just smirks at him, obviously pleased with himself.

They stop only so Bucky can send Strider outside, the leather ball that was a gift from Steve and a few choice carrots to keep him occupied. Strider barely spares them a glance before he’s off running, almost as if he knows it’s best for him to stay far away from the house for a while.

“Bed?” Steve tightens his hold on the back of Bucky’s thighs, mouth hot on Bucky’s neck, licking and nipping at the skin.

Bucky laughs, tilting his head back. “Unless you wanna keep holding me up, yeah.”

Steve makes a little sound in the back of his throat, walking them in the direction of Bucky’s bedroom. They never stop kissing, Bucky licking past the seam of Steve’s lips, teasing Steve’s tongue with his own, heat coiling in his stomach when Steve moans softly and presses closer.

They break apart when they reach the bedroom, Steve lying Bucky gently down on the bed. Bucky lets go of him so he can throw the mess of clothes on top of his mattress to the floor, not wanting to think that he was about to leave this place, his home, _Steve_.

“Hey.” Steve climbs on the bed and hovers over him, hands warm and firm rubbing up and down Bucky’s thighs. “We’re both here.”

Bucky swallows, chest loosening and lips forming a smile as he stares at Steve above him, hair a mess, eyes dark and lips red. “Yeah,” he breathes out. “We are.”

Steve doesn’t resist when Bucky grabs him by the collar and tugs him down on the bed, settling in between Bucky’s spread legs, their lips finding each other again. They kiss languidly, hands roaming and touching, just getting to know each other’s bodies.

Bucky loves this: Steve on top of him, covering him up. Steve’s hands and mouth on him make tiny shivers run through his body, leaving him trembling. He hasn’t been touched like this in so long, with this much care and love and tenderness. It leaves him gasping, overwhelmed in the best of ways.

It only gets better when they rid themselves of their shirts, Steve’s torso bared to him, all muscle and pale skin and strength, only the eagle pendant around his neck glinting under the light. It makes Bucky self-conscious, with his scars and burns and weird tan lines, the skin of his chest and stomach lighter than the one on his face and hands.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind, gaze hungry as he stares at Bucky, hands sliding up Bucky’s waist and stomach, fingers tracing the lines of muscles there, before moving on to Bucky’s chest, fingers stopping to thumb at Bucky’s nipples, sending sparks of pleasure down his spine.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky moans, lifting up into the touch. “Come back here and _kiss_ me.”

Steve laughs and obliges, but not in the way Bucky expects him to. Instead of catching Bucky’s lips in a kiss, Steve presses his mouth to Bucky’s stomach, peppering kisses up his chest until he reaches one of Bucky’s nipples, sucking it into his mouth.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky curses, hands flying to Steve’s hair.

Bucky doesn’t know whether to fall into or pull away from Steve’s mouth, entire body flushed with heat, cock hard in his pants. All he can do is hold on, hips rocking against Steve’s, trying to seek some relief.

Steve trails his mouth up Bucky’s chest, sucking marks on his collarbone and neck, the little bites of pain making everything more intense. “Okay?” he asks, voice muffled against Bucky’s jaw, lips catching at the stubble there.

“More than,” Bucky promises, turning his head so he can kiss Steve, licking his way into Steve’s mouth. “Would be better if we were naked.”

Steve nips at Bucky’s bottom lip, soothing the hurt with his tongue, and then pulls back, one hand coming up to swipe Bucky’s hair away from his face. “You sure?”

“I will rip your clothes off myself,” Bucky threatens, grinning when Steve ducks his head and laughs, right before he scrambles away and starts undoing his laces.

Bucky watches him, hands behind his head, eyes hungry. Steve naked is a sight Bucky will carry with him for as long as he lives, with his thick thighs and tiny waist, a blush running down from his ears to his navel, his cock hard and curving up against his stomach. Bucky licks his lips, mouth watering.

“Aren’t you going to…,” Steve gestures to Bucky, still clothed.

“Thought you could do it for me,” Bucky says, lifting up a foot and poking Steve in this stomach with his toe.

Steve makes a face at him and catches him by the ankle, bending Bucky’s leg and putting it over his shoulder when he kneels back on the bed. Bucky shivers when he feels Steve drop a light kiss to his anklebone before letting Bucky’s leg rest against the mattress once more.

“You’re beautiful, you know?” Steve murmurs, surging forward so he can peck Bucky’s lips, quick and chaste.

“You haven’t seen all of me yet,” Bucky points out, trying to ignore the way Steve’s words light him up inside.

Steve smiles, hands finding the waistband of Bucky’s pants, making quick work of getting them open. Bucky lifts his hips, breath hitching in his lungs when Steve pulls down the last layers between them, leaving him naked and shivering and bared for Steve to see.

And oh, does Steve look. There is hunger and heat and love in his eyes, gaze trailing up and down Bucky’s body, as if committing him to memory.

“I stand corrected,” Steve says, licking his lips, one finger trailing down from the hollow of Bucky’s throat to his navel. “Beautiful.”

Bucky makes a little hurt noise in the back of his throat, pulling Steve to him. Steve goes, kissing Bucky back eagerly, deep and hot, hands tight on Bucky’s waist, holding him close. Bucky wraps his legs around Steve’s hips, swallowing the sounds of pleasure Steve makes when their dicks slide together as they move against each other, bodies slick with sweat.

“What do you want?” Steve asks, nuzzling his nose against Bucky’s.

Bucky swallows, legs tightening around Steve’s hips.

He wants everything Steve is willing to give him, but the thought of getting it all in one night scares him. He wants to savor this, to draw it out, to take the edge off now so he can take his time with Steve later.

“This is good,” Bucky says, kissing Steve’s once, his hands trailing down Steve’s back to cup his ass. “Just like this. We can do everything else later.”

Steve smiles at him, soft and fond. “We have time.”

“We do,” Bucky agrees, pulling Steve closer and rocking his hips up, tilting his head for another kiss.

Bucky gets lost in it, in Steve. His entire world narrows down to all of the points their bodies touch, to Steve’s taste on his tongue, to the sounds Steve makes when Bucky rakes his nails down his back, sucks at his pulse point, tugs at his hair.

It’s intoxicating, being with Steve likes this. It’s everything Bucky hoped it would be and more, every one of his wishes and dreams come true.

And things only get better when Steve brings a hand up between them, eyes darkening when Bucky licks at his palm, making it wet. Bucky whimpers when Steve wraps that hand around both of them, thumbing at the head of Bucky’s cock, gathering the precome there. All Bucky can do is pull Steve into a kiss as the pleasure builds, hips rolling as he fucks himself back into Steve’s fist.

“Steve,” Bucky gasps, hands clutching at Steve’s shoulder, nails leaving marks on his skin. “ _Steve_.”

“I know,” Steve breathes out, forehead resting against Bucky’s, his lips brushing Bucky’s as he speaks. “I know, sweetheart. That’s it, let go for me.”

It’s the ‘sweetheart’ that gets to Bucky, washing over him and leaving him breathless, heart like it’s about to burst. He arches off the bed, pressing himself as close to Steve as he possibly can, entire body tensing when he tips over the edge.

Bucky hears Steve swear above him, entire body floating and tingling pleasantly as he tries to catch his breath. He opens his eyes, not knowing when he closed them, and watches Steve kneel between his legs, hand working his cock, slicked with both precome and Bucky’s release.

Bucky licks his lips, stomach flipping and dick twitching in a feeble attempt to get hard again. He clumsily rests a hand on Steve’s thigh, grounding him, watching Steve getting himself off through half-lidded eyes.

Steve looks beautiful, hair matted to his forehead with sweat, cheeks red and lips swollen, purple bruises forming on his neck and collarbones in the shape of Bucky’s mouth. He moans when he notices Bucky looking, back arching as he spreads his thighs and works himself faster, Bucky’s name on his tongue.

“C’mon, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, voice hoarse and absolutely wrecked. “Come on me.”

Bucky watches open-mouthed and absolutely fascinated as Steve lets go, spilling over his fingers and all over Bucky’s stomach, some of it getting on his chest. It makes Bucky feel claimed, owned, in a way that is not trapping or violating.

It is dirty and wonderful and exactly as Bucky wished it would be.

Steve flops down next to him, panting, his sticky hand resting right over Bucky’s chest, feeling his heartbeat. Bucky turns his head, pressing his lips to Steve’s forehead in the ghost of a kiss. Steve reciprocates, mouth hot and wet on Bucky’s shoulder, teeth nipping at the skin.

They lay there, together, catching their breaths, sweat and come chilling on their skin, hearts beating in tandem.

It just feels as it is meant to be.

 

**

 

It is minutes or hours or years later that they both find the energy to move. When they do, they still find ways to keep touching each other: fingers against one’s back, hands on shoulders, lips pressed over lips.

“We should do that again,” Steve tells him once they’re clean and lying on new sheets, legs tangled together, neither of them wearing any clothes.

Bucky hums, fingers tracing random patterns on the bared skin of Steve’s back. Steve has his head tucked under Bucky’s chin, breath ghosting over the hollow of Bucky’s throat. Bucky can feel Steve’s heartbeat against his side, strong and steady, as well as light kisses being pressed over his pulse point whenever Steve tries to shuffle impossibly closer, arm tightening around Bucky’s waist.

“I’d like that,” Bucky says, enjoying the feeling of Steve’s naked body so close to his. “Are you sure, though?”

Steve lifts his head, eyebrows raised. “That I want to make you come again? Yes.”

Heat rushes to Bucky’s cheeks, and he ignores the smug look on Steve’s face as he glances up at him. “I mean this,” Bucky clarifies, gesturing between them. “What you said before. About… About courting. Are you sure you want someone like me to be Prince Consort?”

Bucky doesn’t mean to, but his eyes flicker to his own left arm and the mess of scars there. He promises to himself this is the last time he’ll give Steve an out, but for both of their sakes, he needs to ask again. He needs Steve to be sure, before they move forward with this.

Steve cups his cheek with one hand, tilting Bucky’s head up again, their gazes meeting. Steve’s expression is soft but serious, eyes liquid, and he’s smiling a little. Bucky wraps his fingers around Steve’s wrist to keep his hand in place, and then rubs his cheek against Steve’s palm.

“I meant it when I said there is no one else for me,” Steve says quietly, thumb tracing the line of Bucky’s bottom lip.

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, pressing a kiss to the tip of Steve’s thumb.

“Yeah.” Steve nods, bumping their noses together. “You’re smart, brave, hard working, and you call me on my shit.”

“Someone has to,” Bucky argues, lips quirking up a bit.

“If someone must.” Steve smiles back, hand dropping from Bucky’s face so he can catch Bucky’s left hand in his.

Bucky tenses a little when Steve starts to press the lightest of kisses over the scar tissue covering his arm. He can’t feel much of anything on that arm, but his eyes stay glued to Steve’s face as he makes his way up Bucky’s forearm, stopping at the worst of the scars when it reaches his elbow, never once stopping the sweet little kisses the leaves on the way.

“You’re exactly who I want to rule by my side,” Steve says against Bucky’s shoulder, pressing one final kiss there before he turns to look at Bucky again. “But only if you’ll have me.”

Bucky knows this is it.

He’s learned to recognize moments in his life where things change irrevocably. This one is staring at him right in the face, in the form of a prince with light blond hair and soft blue eyes and a smile that makes Bucky burn up inside.

Bucky knows, that after this, life will never be as it once was.

He knows, as well, that life will be _better_. It will be happy and fantastic and new. It will be light and love and wishes and words and dreams come true.

So Bucky lets out a shaky breath, blinks back tears, and smiles. “I’d have no one else.”

 

**

 

When they come together again, this time, it is a confirmation of what they are to each other. It is to strengthen their words and vows and promises, and to start the new life they are going to build _together_.

Bucky relishes in it, surrenders himself to it. Every sound Steve makes when Bucky kisses his way down his chest, holds Steve down by the hips with clever hands, uses his mouth to leave Steve pleading and breathless and wrecked; it is all music to his ears.

When Steve returns the favor, pink lips wrapped around Bucky’s cock, quick fingers thumbing and pinching at Bucky’s nipples as he bobs his head, Bucky is just as lost. All he can do is moan and gasp and run his fingers through Steve’s hair, fucking shallowly into his mouth, Steve’s name on the tip of his tongue.

The salty and sloppy kisses they trade after they’ve both come down are just as good, lips red and swollen, both of them content to just be. Bucky holds Steve close to him, arms around Steve’s waist, their foreheads pressed together, noses touching.

Bucky holds Steve close to him, and thanks the world for dreams come true.

 

**

 

“Come back with me?” Steve tucks an errant strand of hair behind Bucky’s ear, fingers trailing down the side of Bucky’s neck, making him shiver.

Bucky is still lying on the bed, sheets pooled at his waist, hair a mess of tangles and skin bruised where Steve bit and sucked marks into his skin. Steve is sitting beside him, looking much the same, eyes flickering to the clothes strew all over the room, both his and Bucky’s.

“To the Palace?” Bucky asks, playing with the pendant around Steve’s neck, nails catching at the precious stones that make it.

Steve presses Bucky’s hand flat to his chest. “Yes.”

Bucky licks his lips, eyes searching around his room, the place that has been his home for so long, when all thoughts of home had been cut out of him.

“I’m not giving this place up,” Bucky tells Steve, heart breaking even at the mere thought.

“Okay,” Steve says, as if it is that simple.

And maybe it is, now. Maybe Bucky doesn’t have to fight so much to keep what he wants.

“Yeah?”

Steve nods. “We’ll have to talk about where we’re going to live if we don’t wish to reside in the Palace, although I’ll have to be there more often than not, but that can be a conversation for later. If it’s here, we’ll need to have _another_ talk, but yeah. You don’t have to give this place up. I know how much it means to you.”

Bucky lets out a relieved breath, tugging Steve down for a kiss with a hand at the back of his neck. “Thanks.”

“Always,” Steve whispers, stealing another quick kiss. “So you’ll come back with me?”

“Yes,” Bucky answers, and gives Steve a rueful smile. “I guess we have some explaining to do.”

Bucky’s eyes flutter shut when Steve kisses his forehead, the ever present butterflies in his stomach flipping around. “We should probably clean ourselves up,” he says, even though he doesn’t want to move.

“That’d be good, yeah.” Steve wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want to talk to my Mother while smelling like sex.”

Bucky snorts, kissing Steve’s chin and then getting up from the bed. “C’mon, then.”

They bathe together, which is an entirely new experience for Bucky. Steve’s hands on his wet skin and fingers washing his hair make him melt, muscles so relaxed he needs to lean against Steve’s chest to keep himself up. Steve laughs at him, body shaking against Bucky’s, but makes no moves to push him away.

Once they’re dry and dressed, Bucky goes about putting things away in his home, not standing to see the mess now that he knows he’s not going anywhere. Steve helps, as much as he can, always reaching out and tugging Bucky into a kiss whenever Bucky is close enough to touch.

“Good?” Steve asks once they’re done, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s waist.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes out, looking around his house, knowing that the next time he comes back things will be different. “Yeah, I’m good.”

With a final kiss, Steve takes Bucky hand in his, and they step outside.

 

**

 

Bucky isn’t good.

Bucky is the _opposite_ of good.

Bucky is about to drop Steve’s hand and run as fast as he can, somewhere far far away from here. Because as soon as they step outside, Bucky sees Steve’s _entire guard_ waiting for them, huge smiles on their faces, exuding _smugness_.

Even Strider looks like he’s smiling, sitting at Dame Chavez’s feet, tongue sticking out as he pants happily, tail wagging.

Bucky feels himself blush at the same time as horror courses through him, leaving him frozen in place, mouth agape. Because he knows, he _knows_ that they’ve all heard him and Steve have sex. It’s written in all of their faces, even though no one is _saying_ anything.

When Bucky looks to Steve, it is to find him just as, if not even _more_ red, flushed from the tips of his ears down to his neck.

“Sorry,” Steve says when he turns to Bucky, looking all kinds of miserable and embarrassed.

“It’s fine,” Bucky answers, clearing his throat. “I mean, it could be worse.”

“ _How_?” Steve asks, so genuinely horrified that it makes Bucky laugh.

Bucky leans in close, lips brushing Steve’s ear. “At least we were inside the house.”

Steve makes a little hurt sound in the back of his throat, eyes widening. He doesn’t say anything, just lets out a harsh breath through his nose. “You’re trouble.”

“Takes one to know one,” Bucky throws back, smiling.

Steve grins, leaning in for a kiss that leaves Bucky breathless, his cheeks now pink for an entire different reason.

“Are Your Highness and the Prince Consort ready to leave?” Dame Chavez asks them, eyes glinting when she looks at them.

Bucky’s heart twists at hearing himself be called _Prince Consort_. It is strange, so not the way he is used to think of himself, but he knows he will have to get used to it. He is in this, with Steve, until the end of the line.

“Wait, I forgot something,” Steve says, letting go of Bucky’s hand so he can pat his pockets.

Bucky presses his lips together in amusement, watching as Steve fumbles with whatever it is he is looking for. It takes Steve a few tries until he manages to fish something out of his pocket, a small flash of silver and blue catching Bucky’s eye.

“What…,” Bucky trails off, heart beating rapidly when Steve takes his left hand and slides a _ring_ on his finger, a wide silver band with crowns and a rectangular blue stone in the middle, and then kisses his knuckles. “Have you been carrying that out with you the entire time?” he asks, eyes round with shock.

“Not the whole time,” Steve says, sheepish.

“Since when?” Bucky looks down at their hands, chest tight.

“Remember the stream?” Steve asks him, squeezing Bucky’s fingers. “The first time we touched?”

Bucky remembers. He can still feel the press of Steve’s fingers against his own on the ground. The first gentle touch he’d received in so long.

“I do,” Bucky whispers, knees almost giving up as he falls in love with Steve all over again.

Steve notices it, snaking an arm around Bucky’s waist, pulling him close, keeping him safe. “That was when.”

Bucky laughs, the sound lost between them. “You’re a sap.”

“I love you.” Steve shrugs one shoulder, smiling huge.

Bucky closes the distance between them and kisses that smile right off of Steve’s face. “I love you, too.”

“Now we’re ready,” Steve announces, Bucky’s hand in his, his ring shining under the morning sun.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, stealing another kiss, just because he can. “We are.”

And it’s true.

They are ready to go and live _together_.

Their wishes and words, now reality.

Their wishes and words, their happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaahhhh, we've finally reached the end. thank you so much for reading it <3
> 
> you can find a rebloggable link for the fic [right here](http://hawkguyz.tumblr.com/post/149572689676/).
> 
> and once again don't forget to check out [acuisle's art here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7888285/)!!!! and [dulcetine's art right here!!!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7906060)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [linger more than sunlight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7888285) by [acuisle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acuisle/pseuds/acuisle)




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